Ebrithilar
by Dracones
Summary: My book 5. Also on Inheritance Forums. Lots of twists, lots of changes, and it's complete! Gets better the further in you go. Not all posted yet. Rated T because a lot of people die and one commits suicide...
1. Chapter 1

**Ebrithilar**

**By Dracones**

**This is my book 5. Also on Inheritance Forums, where I am likewise Dracones. Incidentally, it is already complete.**

Chapter 1: Life on Du Skulblakafell.

An elf; wet, sodden clothes clinging to his body, long black hair likewise drenched in the liquid that poured in ever-increasing amounts from the darkening night sky above him. He traversed the soaking forest terrain with grace and purpose, despite the apparent lack of any landmarks or indicators of direction in the vicinity. His guides were the moon and the stars, the faint glimmer of sunlight as it sank into the west, his recollections of previous journeys embarked upon in similar fashion, and the whispers of the animals and plants around him, which told of sights and scents of dangerous beings of power up ahead. He disregarded the petty fears of the creatures, and utilised their memories to help him seek out his destination, which was not far in front of him. His sense of direction had served him well.

A thinning of the trees heralded the sight that was to come before him, the pines becoming less dense, slightly less vibrant; though only slightly. However, it was still enough for the elf to notice, and a small smile temporarily flashed over his face. Speeding up, he soon reached the edge of the great forest that was his home, though none had previously known how far north it truly extended. Truth be told, it extended even further than the staggering distance he had already traversed. He had simply reached a rather large break in the trees, the cause of which was a grey mountain of rock and stone.

A road, a path, carved out of the living stone of the mountain itself, wound its way higher and higher up the peak, starting from near where the elf stood, gazing up at the sight. Though he had seen it before, it was always a sight to remember; not necessarily the mountain, nor the path, but the glimmering hall of white marble that rose from the summit.

It seemed to glimmer even more in the rain, which still poured down, giving every surface exposed to it a reflective sheen. The building had two distinctive sections. At the front, where the road of rock reached the top, the hall was large and square, a great door leading in from the road, carvings and patterns all over the surface. There were no stone blocks making up the walls; the entire structure was one exquisite marble creation, sung out of the very ground, all linked together by the fact that it was all the same marble that had been summoned up from the earth in the beginning, there being no distinction at all between the elegant patterns woven by magic and the simple flat stone they lay on, for they were different parts of the same whole.

Behind that, still attached to the front of the building, rose a tower. It was massive, circular, rising up high into the darkened sky. The tower itself was very thick; there was a large hole in the top, one which ran the entire way down, but the design was purposeful. The walls extended quite far from the shaft, which went all the way down to the bottom of the tower, and in the wall, there were caves, large caves which went deep into the walls. The tower was a place for dragons, the place for dragons, for this was where they stayed when training for the privilege of being dragon and Rider, and where they would live-though temporarily, as they would need to travel to Alagaesia and such-thereafter.

All this, the elf remembered from his former visits, starting five years ago, when he was the first person to see it that had not had a hand in its construction or planning. Even though he had paid it several visits since then, he was still awestruck by the sight, if not for very long. He started to walk forwards, up the mountain road, a smile on his face.

The end was in sight.

"Now," Eragon said, "Remember, focus on the image you want and say the words of the spell. Pick an image you would like to be preserved, one that you would like to keep, for whatever you create shall be your own property. I have found sometimes that putting feelings into the Fairth works well for creating an image you want to keep, but it can have adverse effects if you do not take caution with that feeling. So, cast your spells." His students nodded, and one by one they cast the spell. Eragon himself cast a spell on his own piece of slate, as an example. He focused on an image of Oromis and Glaedr in Ellesmera, on the Crags of Tel`nair, and it appeared on the slate tablet in front of him, perfect but for one slight alteration from the original picture. The same alteration had snuck into several of his fairths over the past few years.

Oromis and Glaedr, and the forest behind them, were in crystal-clear focus, just as he remembered them. The golden dragon sparkled brilliantly in the light that shone from above them, his missing foreleg evident, but embodying the pride of the great dragon that Glaedr had been. Oromis, on his back, smiled down at the viewpoint, wisdom and sadness in his gaze and his hand on Naegling. It was a memory of the pair just before they had left Ellesmera, flying to their deaths over Gil`ead. The pine trees of the forest behind were clearly detailed, and when Eragon looked closer, he could almost make out individual needles on the branches. All of that was just as he had intended, yet the alteration was still there, leaning against a tree.

Not of his own choice or memory, for she had not even been there at the time, Arya stood next to the trunk of one of the nearest trees, one hand resting against it. Her sword was at her side, a gentle, reverent smile on her beautiful face as she looked up at the Rider and dragon. She still entranced him, even after five years apart, and his feelings, his longing, and his love had inserted her into the picture, because, as usual, his adoration and loneliness were an ever-present part of his mind, always in his emotions, and many times they would invoke such a response in his fairths. The constant background to his thoughts, Arya, was brought into the background of his fairths as well, which made it awkward to show them to the students, as they felt more personal than a simple demonstration. The additions to the pictures appeared mostly when the Fairth was one of his time in Alagaesia, when his memories of her would surface once more.

When his pupils had finished, they held up the fairths for him to inspect. He had chosen to forgo the meditation session, due to the weather, and they were inside one of the training halls in Du Skulblaka Breoal, or the dragon house. Perched atop Du Skulblakafell, the dragon mountain, it was something for Eragon to be proud of; the interior design was much like that of Doru Abrea on Vroengard, large, airy, everything made bigger for the comfort of the dragons. Now, he was in a relatively small hall with his four students, Dusan, a male elf, Kundavar, an Urgal, Nar Garzhvog`s son, Aruk, a dwarf of Durgrimst Ragni Hefthyn, and Taiven, a human and the niece of King Orrin. The hall, despite being one of the smaller ones, was thrice the size of his rooms in Ellesmera.

Ellesmera...

Arya...

Eragon mentally shook himself, and began to walk around, to see what his students had created. Kundavar had trouble with magic normally, though he was steadily improving, as shown by his simple, yet artistic image of the five dragons that lived on Du Skulblakafell, all flying together in the sky. It was hazy in places, but the overall image was good.

Aruk, likewise, was having several small problems with pronunciation and such, due to the differences between the language of the dwarves and that of the elves. His Fairth of the star sapphire in Tronjiem exceeded Eragon`s expectations, showing just how much all dwarves cared for the ancient gem, which Saphira had fixed after Arya had broken it to save him.

Arya...

Taiven, who was already surprisingly fluent in the ancient language, had created a picture of the five people in the room, just as they were. It was an obvious idea, but the beauty the Fairth held was due to the obvious spirit of enjoyment and happiness that flowed across the slate. Taiven`s emotions had gone into that Fairth, and it was a good image.

Dusan was, for obvious reasons, more adept at the ancient language than the rest, and his Fairth was the most detailed yet. It was one of a treehouse in Ellesmera, Dusan`s sister, Alanna, who Eragon recognised from previous visits to the city, and he therefore guessed that that was where Dusan had lived before becoming a Rider. Maybe the young elf was slightly homesick, or just wanted to see his family again. Eragon would have to talk to him about it later.

He nodded to each of his students in turn, and as he was about to give his opinions on their works, Saphira reached out her mind to him. He let her in gladly, and she said, Little one, Vanir approaches. You should greet him, and leave the drawings-on-slate for another day. She had been teaching the younger dragons a bit about flying in bad conditions, which was why she had spotted the elven ambassador so fast.

Of course. Are you finishing with the hatchlings now?

Little one, they are barely hatchlings now. But yes, I will be finishing shortly.

Good, I want to spend some time with you.

Little one... She allowed pleasure to flow across to him, then left his mind, though their link remained. He smiled, then turned back to his students.

"I would very much like to comment on your work now, but the elven ambassador, Vanir, has just arrived to collect the next set or eggs to be carried to Alagaesia, which means that both I have to cut this lesson short to see him, and that you shall likely be made full Riders quite soon. I dislike leaving in the middle of a lesson, but if you would please retire to your rooms now. Thank you." With a few disappointed frowns, the Riders bade him farewell, and Eragon strode into the entrance hall that adjoined their current location, while they headed in the opposite direction, towards their quarters.

Upon reaching the huge doors, Eragon gave a simple command of "Ladrin!" or 'open,' and both sides of the door moved inwards silently. A few pre-emptive wards to keep the rain out stood Eragon in good stead as winds whistled past the sides of the building, carrying with them the rain, which splattered against the hall, the mountain, the road, and the elf walking along the latter. With a cry of relief, the elf, now recognisable as a dripping wet Vanir, ran forwards, into the dry hall, muttering as he did so a spell which dried out his clothes and his hair. He smiled, and rested a hand on Eragon`s shoulder in a comradely manner.

"How was your journey, Vanir? Uneventful?" The ambassador nodded.

"On the whole, yes. Nothing worthy of mention occurred. And it`s pretty much the same for the rest of Alagaesia, actually, though there has been something small happening in Surda. The queen herself is getting restless. But, anyway, down to business!" Eragon would have liked to inquire more about Arya, but Vanir`s abrupt change of topic away from that stopped him.

"Aye, and down it is!" Eragon led Vanir to the side, spoke a word, and steps going downwards revealed themselves. The two descended into the darkness, until a whispered "Naina!" from Eragon lit up the area, and they reached the chamber at the bottom.

A large room, hundreds of alcoves in the walls, spread out over all four of them, met their eyes. Vanir in his position as Ambassador, had been informed of the Eldunari, having sworn oaths of secrecy, and in each alcove rested a single Eldunari, reflecting beautiful colours all over the room in the magical light. Below each alcove was the name of the dragon, elegantly carved in the marble, though some, not yet sane from Galbatorix`s tortures, were nameless, though the other Eldunari, sometimes with Eragon`s assistance, were attempting to heal the broken minds of the dragons. But despite the sight of the dragons` hearts, both Eragon and Vanir were focusing on things much more vital for the rebuilding of the dragons and Riders.

The twenty-two eggs from the Vault of Souls that were destined to be linked to Riders, each on a beautiful plinth.

Plus one.

In a separate position, to the side, sat one more egg, not one from the Vault. It was pure white, quite small in comparison to most of the others, and Saphira had laid it five months after the completion of Du Skulblaka Breoal.

Eragon gave Vanir six of the dragon eggs this time, though not Saphira`s; he was confident that with the assistance of the new Riders, he could train even more this time than before, hence the six. The eggs were put in sacks, and Vanir hefted the heavy burden without complaint. They ascended again, and in the entrance hall, bade each other farewell. Vanir declined the offer of a room to rest after his travels, insisting that he was fine, and he once again walked out into the cold, damp, world outside.

Eragon turned away, thinking of the future rebuilding of the Riders, and he allowed his feet to take him where they would, not concentrating on his own actions. To his surprise, when he next looked up, he found himself face to face with the Fairth he had just made, staring into the beautiful emerald eyes of the one he loved.

Arya...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Queenly Duties.**

"Your Majesty, the task you`ve given us is not easy. The sheer amount of people in the cities across the land makes it near impossible to scan everyone`s mind for magic."

Nausada looked at the fat, middle aged man in front of her. He had brown hair that was turning grey, dark eyes, and an irritated expression. "Saren, I am the Queen. What I tell you to do, you must do, no matter how hard. It should not have taken you five years of work with all the resources I can give you for you to have only scanned three quarters of the population! Speed up your work, or I shall have you replaced as the head of the magicians. Now go, and see to it that my orders are carried out!"

"Yes, your Majesty," Saren said, as he backed out of the room.

Nausada sighed. Saren was annoying and lazy, but he was the best at his job, and he organized the magicians well. When he wasn`t drunk, that is.

Nausada was finding the challenges of being Queen less stressful than the challenges of being the Leader of the Varden, though not by much. And it was idiots like Saren who made it so difficult. Fortunately, though, there was no council of elders to argue with her and try to control her in Ilirea, although she had kept one of them.

"Jormundur!" She called.

Jormundur emerged from a side door into Nausada`s office. The office was a smart room; an ornately carved mahogany desk in the middle, a series of bookshelves on one side of the room, a series of fairths depicting events in the past, ranging from Roran`s victory at Aberon to Saphira and Thorn`s battle over Dras`Leona, a circular balcony behind the desk where Nausada could give speeches, and a smooth floor of pinkish marble. It was, Nausada reflected, one of her favourite parts about being Queen. The sheer grandeur was so impressive.

"Yes, my Lady?" Jormundur replied.

"Come with me," she said, standing up. She walked over to the balcony and looked down at the city. When he joined her, she gestured at the courtyard where the city`s soldiers trained. It was a large area set aside for practice, and it was all but empty. "Jormundur, looking at that have a feeling that most of our soldiers are out of practice. I know it`s peacetime, but we shouldn`t let our guard down. I want you to get their captains to really focus on training. Then, you can go and do the same at Gil`ead, as the same is probably happening there too." Jormundur nodded.

"Yes, my Lady. It`s a good idea to get the men ready, you never know what could happen." Nausada was pleased at that. Jormundur always stayed alert and made the best decisions. That was why he was the second-in-command.

"You may go. And see to it that the men get training." Jormundur bowed and made to leave, but she stopped him with the words "Can you get Saren, please? I wish to contact Orrin." Jormundur nodded and bowed again.

"I shall send him in as soon as possible, your Majesty."

"Thank you, Jormundur." He bowed, and left the room.

Five minutes later, Saren walked through the door with an expression of frustration on his face. "You called again, your Majesty?" slightly stressing the "again."

"Yes, Saren. I wish to speak to King Orrin." Her tone was polite and formal, if a bit cold.

Saren looked at her. "And you couldn`t ask me to do this when I was here before because?" Nausada half rose out of her seat at that, and she raised her voice.

"Who gave you the right to question my decisions? If you do so again, you will be replaced. Now scry the king, or I will have you whipped! Now!"

Saren muttered a few words and folded his arms, frowning, as King Orrin appeared on the mirror to the side of the room. He was sitting at a desk, wearing his royal robes of orange and some smart brown leather boots, but no crown. When he saw her, Orrin stood up and greeted Nausada.

"Your Majesty! This is a pleasant surprise. May I inquire as to why you wish to talk with me?" There was a smile on his face as he spoke.

"In truth, Orrin, I am merely curious as to a few rumours that I`ve heard about disturbances in Surda, as a matter of fact, around the capital." Nausada replied. Orrin had always been a bit frustrated with the fact that he had not taken control of the Empire himself, and had acted a bit formal around her, as if they were rivals, and Nausada had got used to it, but now he was behaving and talking in a much friendlier way than usual. It seemed almost as if he was trying to get into her good books, and she found the change slightly unnerving.

"Oh yes, I heard about that myself. I sent some of my men to investigate it, and it turned out it was an escaped magician of Galbatorix`s command. But he was dealt with shortly, and nothing more has come of it. Nothing to worry about really, the man was an idiot!" Orrin said, chuckling.

Still unused to such a seemingly friendly and informal Orrin, Nausada replied "I see. Thank you for informing me, Orrin, but I really must take my leave now." He smiled.

"Of course, of course, the demands of command! Well, goodbye then Nausada. I`ll speak to again soon, yes?" She nodded and smiled, then waved at Saren to stop the spell. She remained silent for a couple of minutes, thinking over Orrin`s new behaviour, until she heard a voice, filled with sarcasm.

"Well, your highness? May I go, or do you need to tell someone else about something that has already been dealt with?"

Quelling her distaste, Nausada replied, "No, Saren, that will be all. Thank you."

"Thank you, your Majesty," said Saren as he turned and walked out. Even from behind, Nausada could tell he was scowling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Ignoring Queenly Duties.**

Arya and Firnen were gliding over Du Weldenvarden. To Arya, Firnen's scales seemed to blend in with the vast green forest below them. He suddenly sped up, his great wings beating powerfully and his tail waving slightly from side to side. His head was held high, his gaze was calm and assured, and he looked like the most dignified and noble animal in Alagaesia. Which, of course, he was, as Saphira and all the other dragons were out of the continent, and the Dragons were the most dignified and noble creatures. Saphira and the hatchlings were far north, a week`s journey at best, that being for a dragon with the wind on his side flying as fast as he could.

On Firnen's back sat Arya, a green cloak around her neck, her sword, Tamerlien, on her hip, and a silver diadem on her head. She rubbed Firnen's shoulder and he growled in pleasure.

_Arya, when shall we return to Ellesmera? Dathedr will wonder where we are._ Firnen's deep voice filled her mind.

Arya smiled. _He knows what to do, he knows how to rule, and I doubt anything will come up that requires the authority of a queen. We could be absent for a year and everything would probably still be fine._ She sensed that Firnen was happy about what she said, and a second later she found out why.

_Why don't we, then?_

_What, visit Eragon?_ She could tell that that was what he had wanted to ask her that for some time, possibly he had been trying to make her say that.

_And Saphira._ Now she realised what he had wanted to do, and why.

_That goes without saying, they are practically one and the same, as are we._

_Ah, but there are still some differences, such as our priorities._ Arya laughed.

_You got that right!_ Firnen hummed contentedly.

_Of course, little one. I am a Dragon. Dragons know these things._ She smiled, and answered reassuringly.

_We shall visit them soon,_ Firnen. He growled, frustrated.

_How soon, though? Within a month? A week?_

_Why are you so keen on going? To see Saphira again?_ She asked, teasing him.

Amusement and a bit of embarrassment flashed across their link_. Partly. And why are you so keen on going? To see Eragon again?_

_...Partly, as you very well know. What's the other reason then?_ She asked, trying to distract him from what she'd said.

He answered honestly. _I need more training if I'm going to be useful to anyone. I have hardly any idea of how to fight Dragons in the air, or on the ground for that matter. Instinct is my only teacher, and while it may be a good one, training with experienced fighters will be much better._ She nodded in agreement.

_Yes, training is something that I need to improve as well. It is a long time since I sparred against an experienced and skilled warrior._

_When was the last time?_ Firnen asked, curiosity in his voice.

Arya thought back, and showed Firnen a memory of before he had hatched, when she had sparred against Eragon during the war. He had matched her speed and skill, and he had understood how she fought and thought. She had been hard pressed during that bout, and she hadn't fought anyone as good since. In fact, she had hardly fought anyone since becoming queen.

_I need to practice again, Firnen. I'm out of shape._

_Well then, there's a way to keep up your level of skills._

Arya was curious. _And what would that be?_

_Visit Du Skulblakafell. Now. Vanir told me the way, and apparently the place Eragon's built there is quite something. You probably won't have to learn very much, so you can sit back and relax while I train._

She grinned. _Just relaxing there would kind of defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?_

_Well, you can improve your swordfighting skill again, which would be a huge asset,_ he suggested.

_The elves need me here._

_Listen to what you`re saying! You said yourself that Dathedr can handle everything necessary. _Arya sighed. Firnen was very persuasive.

_I know, but I'm still not sure..._

_Don't you want to see Eragon again?_ He asked, and she felt her arguments crumbling.

_Oh alright. Arguing with a Dragon really is pointless!_

_Especially when you agree with what they're saying._

Arya poked him and grinned._ I said alright, didn't I?_

_That you did, little one._ Firnen replied affectionately, as he angled towards Ellesmera.

Dathedr was waiting for her as they approached the courtyard of the Tialdari hall. It was a beautiful place. The grass area that had originally been made for dragons to land in was surrounded by birch trees, sung into elegant arches by the elves. Arya could tell that the trees were healthy from the size of the fruit hanging down of them, which the elves grew and ate. The fruits came from the apple trees, sung into shape around the birches. The arches led through to other rooms constructed in the same style, out of the living trees. The beauty of the sight was only marred by one thing; Dathedr, as he had a frown on his face and he looked frustrated. As Firnen landed, he walked towards them. He spoke formally.

"Arya Drotting."

"Dathedr-vor."

The displeasure shown on his face eased, but his tone was slightly accusational as he continued. "Your majesty, some of the lords and ladies are less than happy with you. They are concerned that you are choosing to ignore your duties and giving them little notice."

Arya raised her eyebrows. "Surely they realise that there is little for me to do that cannot be dealt with by you just as well, if not better? I am merely finding other things to keep me occupied."

"They do, but they are worried that if something occurs, you will have too little time to respond if you are elsewhere." said Dathedr.

"So they would have me stay here forever, then, hardly even leaving the hall?" She asked, questioningly.

"That is what your mother did." He replied.

"I don`t know how she stood it," said Arya, grinning. "But in all those years of staying in the hall, all those years of war, how many times did something happen that would require the immediate attention of the Queen? Less than a dozen. And it is peacetime, Dathedr. We can expect fewer situations where things need to be done in a hurry."

"Be that as it may, they still feel that at any time a situation could occur when the immediate attention of the queen is needed, and as such they feel that you are required to sta-"

"Have they never heard of scrying?" Arya cut in. "Do they not think that they could contact me that way? Wherever I am, all they need to do is say a few words. Are they too lazy to cast a simple spell? My decisions can be made as quickly here as they can anywhere else."

"And you are adamant on this, your majesty?" He asked, appearing displeased at her words.

"Aye, and you can tell the lords and ladies all that as well." She spoke in a determined voice, trying to show her authority.

"And why can`t you tell them, your majesty?"

"Because Firnen and I have decided to visit Eragon and Saphira at Du Skulblakafell. We are leaving after I have found enough supplies for a week or two. You shall be in charge while we are away." He seemed shocked by the decision.

"Are you sure that`s wise, your Majesty? When the Lords and Ladies find out that you have disregarded their advice and will be gone for how long...?" He left the question hanging.

"Until Firnen has finished his training, however long it may take."

"Saphira`s training here took three months!" He exclaimed, shocked.

"Then we shall be three months. Firnen needs to learn." Arya was adamant, despite his protests.

"But when the Lords and Ladies find out that you have ignored them and left for Du Skulblakafell, and that you will be gone for three months, plus journey time, they will be very annoyed with you, and they may make it hard for you to keep the throne."

"They may, Dathedr, indeed, they probably will. But at the moment, I have the throne, I make the decisions, and I have decided to visit Eragon. Goodbye," she said, and she walked through one of the arches to get her things.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Reunion.**

Arya smiled as the first rays of dawn bathed her face in light. Firnen had been flying through the night, and even he was glad to see the morning.

It was a week and a day since they had departed Ellesmera, heading for Du Skulblakafell. The trees beneath them had rolled past steadily, the winds had been fair, and Arya expected to arrive later that day.

Suddenly, the sunlight hit a building on a mountain a few miles ahead of them, illuminating the massive hall in the red rays of dawn. The hall was breathtaking, made with the elegance and grace of the surviving elven buildings in Ileria. The walls were of white marble, glowing with a tint of red in the light, a wide tower reached into the heavens, a road of living rock wove its way up the side of the mountain. It was an amazing sight.

_That must be Du Skulblaka Breoal. Vanir said it was an impressive sight, but I never would have guessed that Eragon could build something like that..._

_Remember, Arya, he had the energy of the Eldunari helping him._

_Aye, but he was the one to wield the energy. The dragons can`t choose to do magic how and when they like. I would hardly know where to begin with all the energy in the world!_

_Come now, Arya, you know that`s not true. You could probably create something just as good._

_Not quite as good, I don`t think._

_You put yourself down too much. Have faith in your abilities, little one._

_Thank you, Firnen. Now, let's land._

Arya walked up to the large double doors, Firnen at her side. The doors were large and wooden, with an ornate gold doorknocker at head height. She raised her hand, hesitated, then knocked loudly. The sound echoed within.

_I`ve been waiting for this moment for over five years... Will he have changed? Will he still be the same? More importantly, will he still feel the same?_

As she waited, she looked around at the stunning scenery, amazed at the size of the forest surrounding the mountain. She hadn`t known Du Weldenvarden extended so far, and the mountains in the distance were taller than the Spine, though not so tall as the Beor Mountains.

Suddenly, the doors swung open, revealing a vast entrance hall. Pillars lined the walls, the ceiling was thirty metres high, and there was a throne at the other end. It was immaculate, with highly detailed and intricate carvings around the walls and pillars. But Arya wasn`t interested in any of that. She only had eyes for one thing.

Standing in front of her, with a smile on his face and surprise and pleasure in his eyes, was Eragon.

Her heart leapt when she saw him, her relief that she had finally seen him after all those years washing over her face in a grin.

"Arya!"

"Eragon!" She exclaimed, leaping towards him and hugging him. He grinned and hugged her back. "I missed you," she said, letting go and looking into his eyes.

"And I you. Barely a day passes without me missing you."

"It was the same for me, but I suspect you had more to occupy yourself with, such as building this. It`s magnificent. I`m impressed."

"I thought you would be. So, why are you here? To train, I presume?"

"Yes, Firnen wishes to know more about the way Dragons fight, what herbs are good for their health, and so on. I want to find out more about the Riders, their duties and their secrets. I don`t know enough."

Eragon nodded. "And that`s it? No ulterior motives, like, I don`t know, visiting an old friend?"

She laughed, saying "I told you I missed you, didn`t I? It wasn`t so much an ulterior motive as much as it was a main reason. The others were just to convince Dathedr to let me go."

"And did they convince him?"

"I`m not sure they did, but he has no authority over me anyway, so I just left."

Eragon grinned. "I bet he wasn`t happy with that!"

"No, he told me that the Lords and Ladies weren`t going to be happy that I left against their will, and might make it hard for me to keep the Throne."

Eragon raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What did you say?"

"I told him that I was still the queen, I still made the decisions, and I had decided to visit you."

"That put him in his place!"

Arya grinned at his amusement. "And what would his place be?"

Eragon gazed into her eyes as he replied "Beneath you, the same as everyone else`s." Arya could tell that he was serious.

She smiled at him sweetly, before saying "Eragon, are you going to invite me in, or will I have to stay out here until the end of time?"

Putting on a posh voice, he replied "My apologies, Arya. Would you like to come in?" Then, switching back to a normal tone of voice, he said "Arya, you know you don`t have to ask to come in. You`re the best friend I have other than Saphira, you can go where you like when you like here."

She stepped into the hall. "Thank you, Eragon. However, the right to go where I like when I like is not much of a privilege if I don`t know where I`m going. Would you show me around?"

He smiled at her. "Of course. It would be my pleasure."

Arya had been treated to a grand tour of Du Skulblaka Breoal, with Firnen at first, but he left at the Dragonhold, to meet the other Dragons and rest. Before the Dragonhold, she had visited the dining hall, which, Eragon admitted, was a bit extravagant for six people, then they had visited the guest quarters and the quarters of the Riders. At that point, Firnen had excused himself, saying he was tired. They had then visited the top of the Dragonhold, and looked out at the amazing view. Eragon had led her back down to the entrance hall and through a little door on the left, down some stairs, and into a chamber of treasures, which Eragon had cast a spell on to ensure that they would only be accessible when he was there. The treasures, of course, were the Eldunari, which Arya was happy to see, and the eggs. Arya had looked at them in wonder, and then began to ask "Tell me, Eragon, did Saphira..." she had trailed off, but it was all Eragon needed to hear, and he had wordlessly pointed behind her, at a pure white egg set back in the wall.

Arya smiled as she recounted Firnen`s pleasure when she told him he was a father. He had roared with pleasure; mentally, so as not to wake the Riders.

She had then made to leave, heading for the guest quarters and the Rider quarters, which were next to each other, but Eragon had stopped her. He had said "You are not a guest, nor are you just a rider. You are a queen, and as such, you get one of the important guest rooms. Trust me, while the normal guest rooms aren`t bad, the important guest rooms are much better."

He was right too, and as a result, she was leaning back on an extremely soft bed in one of the six rooms that were part of each important guest room. There was a small yet comfortable dining room, a living room, a kitchen, a small sort of entrance hall, the bedroom, and a small room for meditation, with pieces of slate for making fairths around the side. When she had first seen that room, she had wondered what it was for and reached out her mind, searching for Eragon. She located his mind in a room just on the end of the corridor, which she guessed was his, and she said_ Eragon, what is the purpose of the little room in my quarters?_

_Let me think... what did I put in yours... Oh yes! In yours there is a small room with slates around the side, and no obvious purpose. It`s for meditating, practicing the Rimgar, and creating Fairths, which is why the slates are there. There`s also a chamber in the floor, if you say open, meaning it as a spell, the chamber will open. You can twist the knobs at the top of the chamber, and water will flow down, hot or cold or any combination in between, depending on how much you twist the knobs, like my quarters in Ellesmera._

Arya wandered over to investigate the room. _I see... Wait, are all the rooms different for everyone?_

_Yes, and each has its own unique feature. Yours is that room, I gave Nausada an office, Murtagh has a few scrolls that I thought he`d find interesting, Those are the only rooms that have stuff like that though, the rest all have 5 rooms, and you`re the only important guest so far, I have no idea where Murtagh is. There are a few more individual touches in the rooms for the people I know as well._

_Such as?_

_In yours, there are two mirrors; one a normal one that can be used for scrying, and another which is linked to the Dragonhold, so you can converse with Firnen. Also, there`s a general theme of the colour green around, and there are carvings of dragons and trees around the edges of the balcony._

She walked out onto the balcony, gasping at the figure of a dragon rearing up, facing away from the balcony, fire shooting out of its mouth and its wings forming the balcony rail, before turning around and seeing two carved trees forming the arched gateway that led onto the balcony. The detail was incredible. _You did all that for me?_

_Yes._

Arya knew then that his feelings hadn`t changed, that he still cared for her as much as ever. But she didn`t say so, as she had thought that if his feelings were still the same in a few months , she would be more certain about the depths of her own feelings, and more confident of the validity of his. Yet as she looked at the Fairth he had made of her when they were by the Ramr river, one of the only things that she had brought with her from Ellesmera, she saw once again that his feelings were good and pure, and that he had changed from the person he was when he had pursued her under the Menoa tree.

_But I don`t know how far my own feelings reach. If only there was some sort of way to tell..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Training.**

Eragon knocked at the door to Arya`s quarters. A few seconds later, it was opened.

Arya was wearing a shirt and leggings, like she usually did, made out of dark green Lamarae, but she had forsaken her cloak and her crown, going for a simpler look than she usually would as queen.

"You look beautiful, Arya."

She smiled at him. "Thank you, Eragon. What do you want to talk about?"

"The matter of your and Firnen`s training. I need to assess what you need to know, and what you know already."

"Oromis taught me much, so that I could protect Saphira`s egg."

"In order to see the extent of your training, may I see your memories?"

"Of course, Eragon. I trust you." So saying, she lowered the barriers around her mind.

He nodded, and extended his mind towards hers. He entered her musical consciousness, and he began to gently search through her memories, taking care to cause as little pain as possible. He found that she had been taught the majority of what he had, with very few exceptions. To teach her the rest would probably take around a week, if not less. He withdrew from her mind to find her in his.

_You paid too much attention to my mind to concentrate on your own._

_Perhaps, but I found what I was looking for. Your training will take a bit less than a week._

Arya smiled, nodding. _And Firnen`s?_

_I would estimate around three months, although Saphira will probably be able to provide a better guess._

_Thank you, Eragon. We should start as soon as we can, then?_

_As you wish._

She withdrew from his mind, and they turned together, walking towards the training area, where Eragon would teach her what she needed to know.

"So, how are the elves? What`s Rhunon doing? Has-"

"I`m glad you mentioned Rhunon. She wanted me to tell you something."

"And what would that be?"

"While travelling in the spine, she chanced upon a huge amount of brightsteel, enough for two dozen swords. She is currently searching through the spine for more deposits. There is enough for around 30 swords now."

"That`s great! Now all the Riders can have their own swords."

She nodded. "Yes, the strength of our Order will be much increased."

Eragon nodded in agreement, and they continued towards the training area. Suddenly, a roar of greeting shook the castle, and Saphira crashed through his mental barriers with a shout.

_Eragon! You didn`t tell me Arya and Firnen had arrived!_

_I thought Firnen had told you last night!_

_Well, he didn`t, and I got a big shock when I woke up and saw him at the other side of the cave!_

_Sorry, I should`ve contacted you, but I thought you knew, and I was showing Arya around._

_Oh, of course, don`t bother with the partner-of-your-mind-and-soul, without whom you would never be here today, bother with the friend who popped round for a visit, who once said that, despite your feelings for her, she would never have any romantic feelings for you! You`ve got your priorities right!_

_Perhaps you didn`t notice, Saphira, because you were having romantic feelings of your own at that point, but when you and Firnen were flying up into the heavens, this happened!_ Eragon said, showing her the memory of when he had made the Fairth of her by the Ramr River.

_She had seen in his name the depth of his feelings for her, and that had not driven her away. He debated whether to say anything on the subject, but he could not let it go. After gathering up his courage, he said, "Arya, what is to become of us?"_

_She hesitated, but he could see that his meaning was clear to her. Choosing her words with care, she said, "I don`t know... Once, as you know, I would have said, 'nothing,' but... Again, you are still young, and humans often change their minds. In ten years, or maybe even five, you may no longer feel as you now do."_

_"My feelings won`t change," he said with utter certainty._

_She searched his face for a long, tense while. Then he saw a change in her eyes, and she said, "If they don`t, then... Perhaps in time..." She put a hand on the side of his jaw. "You cannot ask more of me now. I do not want to make a mistake with you, Eragon. You are too important for that, both to me and to the whole of Alagaesia."_

Saphira considered the memory, then said, _Sorry, little one. I should have paid attention to what you were doing, both then and now, and you were perfectly within your rights not to contact me._

_It`s okay, Saphira, I should`ve contacted you anyway. It won`t happen again._

_I know, little one._

_Saphira?_

_Yes, Eragon?_

_I love you._

Eragon received feelings of love and affection through their link, as Saphira replied_, And I love you too, little one. Now, I think you should pay more attention to the world around you._

Eragon looked around, startled. Arya was standing in front of him, her hands on her hips.

"Are you there? Ready to go now? I thought we were in a hurry?" She said, then she laughed at the expression on his face. "Don`t worry, I was only joking! There`s no reason to look like that!"

Eragon laughed, "That`s a relief, for a second there I thought you were really angry!"

She laughed with him. "Did you think I`d get angry at you for something as normal as talking to your dragon?"

"I wouldn`t have thought so, but you looked angry, so..."

"I thought you`d stopped judging me by what I look like?" He sighed and she laughed again. "Don`t listen to me, I`m not serious. I know your feelings go deeper than that..." She trailed off as he looked into her dark green eyes.

"... We should probably continue. You need to get training."

"Aye..."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Servants.**

Orrin strode down the corridor, his leather shoes making sharp clacking noises on the stone, his orange cloak trailing behind him, and his crown reflecting the light from the torches on the wall at regular intervals. He was going to one of the innermost rooms in his castle in Dauth, as he had no wish to be overheard. Trailing behind him was a spellcaster. The spellcaster was not a very nice person, nor was he a very clean person, nor was he a strong person. However, he was the only person who knew what he knew, and as what he knew could gain Orrin a very strong-yet unwilling-ally, Orrin knew he would have to bear him; at least until he had served his purpose.

The man`s name was Nirvan, and he had been a servant to Galbatorix. He had escaped the castle because he had run away, that was the truth of the matter. He was nothing more than a coward.

Orrin reached the room he was looking for, and he pushed open the door. The room was bare, with nothing on the walls and a mirror in the centre. Orrin stepped behind the mirror, so as not to be seen once the scrying spell had been cast. He rested his sword on the man`s neck, to ensure that he didn`t disobey his orders. "Well? Do as you have been instructed."

Nirvan stuttered, "Yes, m-my lord," and he began a spell of scrying. When he stopped, Orrin couldn`t see what was happening in the mirror, but there was silence for a second, then a voice came out of the mirror.

"You? YOU?"

Nirvan jumped, then spoke in the ancient language, reciting a few lines that he had guessed during his time under Galbatorix`s command, when he had heard what Galbatorix had said, and then when he had seen more of what happened in the Hall of the Soothsayer he had deduced the rest.

"No. Please, no. Not again, "came the voice from the mirror, begging now. "Please..."

Nirvan finished, and another cry came from the mirror.

"NOOOOOOO!" The cry was followed by sobs, as if from a man who had just lost everything he had gained over the past five years. Which, of course, it did.

"Be silent!" Nirvan commanded.

All noise from the mirror ceased.

"Now call your Dragon, and don`t tell him about this, act perfectly normal."

The process was repeated, with louder roars. Then, Nirvan beckoned Orrin forward, and Orrin repeated to the figures in the mirror what Nirvan had said, repeating it word for word after Nirvan. Then, he nodded to Nirvan, saying, "You may go now." Nirvan looked surprised as he turned round, and even more surprised when Orrin stabbed him through the back, piercing his heart. "No witnesses," he whispered, before letting the man fall. Then he turned to the mirror.

Murtagh and Thorn stared back at him, hate in their eyes.

"Greetings, servants. You may now speak, as long as you do not say the Name of the Ancient Language. Am I clear?"

They nodded.

"Then speak."

"YOU SON OF A-"

"STOP!"

Murtagh shut his mouth.

"I will not have you insult me as long as you are under my command. Am I clear?"

They nodded again.

"Then speak."

"Eragon will kill you for this. Him-and Arya. They will come for you and kill you."

"They shall not find out until after you are with me, and you will come to Dauth now, taking care not to be seen, avoiding towns and cities, and flying as fast as you can."

"As you wish... Master."

"Good, and don`t attempt to contact anyone to tell them of this."

Murtagh nodded, and walked away, out of the picture. The image went blank.

Orrin strode out of the room, walking up to the higher, lighter levels of the castle. He spoke to his head magician, Zimar, who scried another Dragon Rider. The mirror showed a room, lined with marble, well furnished, with a girl on a chair. She glanced at the mirror and jumped. "Uncle!"

"Taiven!" Orrin exclaimed, looking at his niece. "How are you? Is you training going well?"

"I`m fine, Uncle. My training is going great, I`ve begun learning new, powerful, uses of magic, and there`s another Rider here! Arya Shadeslayer! The Queen of the elves!"

Orrin pondered over that information in his head, as he asked, "And are you as powerful as she is yet?"

Taiven laughed, saying "No, of course not, Eragon said she has a week left until her training is as complete as his; mine will be done in a month or two, and she has much more experience than me anyway. However, Miremel has successfully outflown Firnen, as he has very little experience in combat. Firnen`s training may take three months."

"Really?" Orrin`s interest was aroused. "That`s interesting... When will you be able to join me in Surda?"

"Once my training is complete and I have been to Ellesmera to forge my sword, if Eragon lets me. In about two months' time, "she said, a smile on her face. "I`ll come and see you as soon as I can, okay?"

Smiling back, Orrin replied, "Of course, my niece. Take care." He waved at Zimar, who ended the spell. He strode out of the room, beckoning for Zimar to follow. Walking fast, he reached the battlements and looked into the castle courtyard. He saw men, training with the bow, the sword, the spear, the pike, the mace, the hammer and the axe. They were all well trained and well-practiced, and they well outnumbered Nausada`s puny Army.

With all this strength, and with a Dragon Rider, soon two, I will be able to take Nausada`s puny kingdom by storm! Especially if I surprise them... But with the other Riders, five against two, I`ll find it hard to hold any cities...

"Zimar!"

"Yes, Master?"

"I need to talk to my magicians. Summon Rakr Sverd."

Zimar bowed, and his eyes glazed as he contacted his magicians. Rakr Sverd were Orrin`s version of the Black Hand, and indeed some of them were from the Black Hand. They were his hidden assassins. The name meant 'Mist sword,' because they slipped through your fingers, you couldn`t touch them, and they were deadly. Orrin turned round to see Zimar saying, "They will come now." Even as he spoke, two magicians filed up to the battlements and bowed. Five minutes later, they were all assembled, about 100 in total, more than Du Vangr Gata. Orrin looked at them, then spoke.

"You are a strong group of people, make no mistake about it. But even with you, if my plans go ahead and we attack, then you will be little use against Dragons and Riders that will doubtlessly come to Nausada`s aid. Therefore, you will have a job to do. We have built machines designed to shoot down Dragons, and hidden then near the border, but in order for them to work and us to win, you will have to enchant the projectiles to bypass their wards. Only then can we succeed."

They glanced at each other, then Zimar spoke. "Sir, the enchantments to do so cost a lot of energy, and the bigger the object, the more energy is needed. That is why we fire so few enchanted arrows; the energy cost makes them much more valuable. For something big enough to harm a Dragon, your Majesty, we would need two spellcasters per projectile, and we will be needed for other things as well."

"Very well, when the time comes, twenty of you will enchant ten javelins to fire from ballistae. Tell the men not to miss. This is important."

"Yes, sir," replied Zimar.

"These projectiles, along with the secret weapon, will be our best defence against the Dragons. Do not let me down."

"Yes Sir!" They chorused.

"Good, now get to work."

They all bowed and left, leaving Orrin thinking about the revenge he was going to take on Nausada. She had overlooked him for being the King, she had ignored his advice on the Urgals, and she had made important decisions without contacting him first. He hadn`t forgotten, and he was going to have his revenge. He was going to have his revenge on them all!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Sparring.**

Arya warily blocked Tamerlien`s edges and faced her opponent. Kundavar, the Urgal Rider, towered over her. He was a Kull, taller now than his father, Nar Garzhvog, and he was wielding a two-handed sword, like Tamerlien used to be, but the hilt fitted just one of his massive hands, and he was holding it as if it was a club, and it looked as if to him it weighed less than a feather. That didn`t bode well for Arya, so she grasped her hand-and-a-half sword in both hands.

It was a week after she had arrived, and her training had been completed. She was practicing sparring with the other Riders, her first fight in a while.

Seeing that she was ready, Kundavar charged forwards, swinging the sword at her left shoulder. She realised that she would lose her sword if she tried to block the blow, so she went down onto one knee and deflected the blade above her head. Then, she went onto her front foot, rising again, slicing at his belly, but he jumped back and swung his sword at her legs. Using the upwards momentum she had gained whilst rising, she leapt over the sword, delivering a kick to Kundavar`s chest, grabbing a horn with one hand and placing Tamerlien on his shoulder, next to his throat. The kick had done little to someone as strong as him, but the sword at his throat meant he had lost.

The bout had lasted less than ten seconds. The students stared in surprise, then applauded.

"Well fought, Shadeslayer," Kundavar said, surprised.

"Thank you, Kundavar." So saying, she let go of his horn and jumped to the ground. She smiled at the other students. "Next?"

Aruk, the dwarf, stepped forward. "I`ll have a try."

They bowed, and then he blocked his sword. It was similar to Kundavar`s, but with a longer hilt, and he held it like an axe.

_He`ll try to keep me at a distance, so if I get up close he`ll be at a disadvantage. And maybe I can use my height as an advantage as well..._

Aruk was ready, standing still with the sword raised, waiting for her to come to him. She wasn`t going to disappoint.

With a yell, she rushed forwards. He swung the sword at her, aiming to catch her on the side whilst she was running. If it hit her, it would probably break a couple of bones. She stopped short, letting the blade whistle past in front of her, then moved in past his guard. He dived to the side to avoid her, moving the sword around between them again. He slashed at her and she blocked, trying to come around to his other side with a backhanded slice, but he moved away, out of the reach of her blade. He slashed at her head, redirecting it towards her hip at the last moment, but she deflected the sword downwards, jumped over it, swinging Tamerlien towards his head. he ducked and she brought the sword down, knocking his sword out of his hand by bashing the flat side of her blade onto his knuckles. She flicked Tamerlien up to his throat and he cursed.

"Barzul! Well done, Shadeslayer, you have bested me."

"Well fought, Aruk-vodhr."

They bowed to each other, and then Taiven came forward. She blocked her sword and assumed a defensive position. This time, both participants waited for the other to strike.

And waited.

And waited.

Suddenly, Taiven charged forwards, her sword raised, and she brought it down, aiming for Arya`s head. Arya brought Tamerlien up to block, then spun round, her sword a blur as she sliced at Taiven. the attack was blocked, and Arya bent back, anticipating the flick upwards before it came and avoiding the sword by millimetres. She jabbed at Taiven`s stomach, changing the strike downwards and slashed at Taiven`s right leg instead. The blow connected, weakening Taiven`s leg. She was unwilling to put her weight on it.

_If I can force her to step on it, she might flinch and give me a chance to end this..._

Arya stepped towards Taiven, lunging towards her left shoulder. Instinctively, Taiven stepped back, wincing as she did so, and in an automatic response to the pain in her leg, her right hand, her sword hand, flickered downwards for a moment.

The moment was all Arya needed. She whipped the sword up to just above Taiven`s heart. "Dead. But it was a good fight."

"Aye, Shadeslayer. It was a good fight."

Dusan stepped forwards, drawing his slim sword. "My turn now, yes?"

"Yes, and I won`t be slowing myself with you."

He readied his blade, and began to walk towards her, his face blank and his sword at his side. Her sword was pointing at the ground next to her feet.

When he was twenty feet away, he swung his arm, as if to bring his sword up to his chest, but he let go of the sword halfway and it shot towards her. At the same time he broke into a sprint. She dodged to the side and it passed through the space where she`d been a second before. She swung her sword at where he was, but he jumped over her and sprinted to his sword. He bent down to pick it up but he felt Arya`s blade on the back of his neck.

"A more surprising tactic, yours, but throwing away your weapon is rarely a good idea."

Dusan nodded. "Thank you, Arya Drotting."

Arya nodded in acknowledgement, and turned away. As she did so, she noticed Eragon leaning against a pillar, watching the training.

"Well fought there, all of you. In fact, you fought so well, you`ve made me want to join in!" As he spoke, he drew Brisingr and blocked the edge. "Duel?" He asked Arya, who grinned.

"Duel." She walked forwards, as did he, their swords in front of them. They met in the middle of the courtyard, and their blades crossed.

Eragon looked deep into her eyes. "So, Arya, will you defeat me as easily as you did the last time I asked to spar with you?"

She laughed. "Somehow I doubt it, if you remember what Glaedr told you."

He nodded. "Remember it I do." Then, he knocked her blade to the side and slashed, but she had been expecting it, moving to the side with a stab at his ribcage. Eragon dodged round to her left, his right, trying to move in, but a slash from Tamerlien kept him away. He blocked it and retaliated in kind, and when the blade was there to deflect, he jumped back, ready to attack again.

"You have not forgotten, it seems." She leapt forwards, only for her blow to be blocked and Brisingr stabbed towards her chest. She was forced back, and she blocked a cut to the head, at which point Eragon shifted to his right, moving in with a backhanded blow, and she moved Tamerlien so it was vertical to the ground to block. But Eragon kept moving, and when Brisingr came into contact with Tamerlien he twisted it, catching her sword between the blade and crossguard of Brisingr and wrenching it out of her hand. He smoothly switched Brisingr to his left hand, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her towards him with his right. He pressed the sword to her throat.

"Dead."

"...Aye, you beat me. I am out of practice. I remember the principals, but..."

"Now that your training is complete, it will be easy for you to reach your former level of skill, if you practice enough. Do you want to spar with me every morning, in order to help you improve?"

"I would like that very much, Eragon."

"Very well. This time tomorrow?"

She nodded and smiled at him. "Yes."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Forest Glade.**

Arya walked through the forest with Eragon and the trainee Riders. They were heading for the clearing where the students meditated. The sun was shining through the leaves, the birds were singing, and the Dragons were flying overhead, off to train elsewhere. It was a beautiful day.

Eragon stopped and spoke to the Riders. "Go to the glades you usually go to, extend you minds into the forest around you and listen until you hear no more. Return in one hour."

They all nodded and began to move away, but a mind brushed against Arya`s.

_Your training is complete, Arya. You have as much need to meditate as I do, that is, very little._

Arya stopped and turned around. _Are you sure?_

He nodded. Yes. _You have an hour to do whatever you want._

She considered, then said, _I think I`ll stay with you then. I have little to occupy myself with._

Surprise and pleasure flashed across his mind and his face. _Thank you, Arya. I was planning to go somewhere..._

_Go then, I`ll follow._

He smiled, then turned and walked away, into the trees. She ran after him, slowing down after she spotted him. She caught up and walked beside him, smiling. He glanced at her happily, then continued walking.

They walked for about a mile, then Arya heard the sound of running water. She looked at him questioningly, and he nodded in acknowledgement.

Soon, a clearing came into sight through the trees. There was a stream flowing through the centre, glistening in the sunlight, the source of the sound. There was a fallen tree near the edge, and the centre was filled with grass. Eragon walked over to the tree and sat on it, Arya joining him after a second.

"This was where Saphira and I camped, the day we found Du Skulblakafell. She was the one who knocked the tree down, accidentally that is. I`ve come here quite often since then, just to get some peace and quiet away from everyone else."

Arya wondered if he had wanted to get away from her. "If you feel like I`m intruding, I can go."

"I didn`t mean it like that! You can stay! In fact, please do, I could do with the company."

She smiled, happy with his response. "Very well. I`ll stay."

"Thank you."

They sat in silence for a long time, enjoying each other`s company. Then, Eragon spoke.

"I wonder what Murtagh`s doing?"

"What makes you think of that?"

"Well, he is my half-brother, so I guess I`m just curious. I`d like to know what he`s been doing with his life since he changed his True Name and left us in Uru`baen."

"Well, he`s probably living a quiet life in a place much smaller than this, with nothing to worry about."

Eragon smiled. "That sound like the sort of thing Saphira would say. A simple and logical explanation."

"Firnen says that sort of thing as well!"

"I`m not surprised. It`s Dragon logic."

"Are you saying I think like a Dragon?"

"It`s a compliment! Dragons are intelligent, wise, and powerful."

"They are also ancient in their thoughts, predators, and they have bad-"

_It might be best to complete this conversation mentally, as six Dragons are currently flying overhead._

_Agreed._

_Well, what I was saying was meant as a compliment, and that`s the main thing._

_Despite the fact that it could be taken as you saying that I think like a large lizard with bad breath?_

_The breath has nothing to do with the mental capacity of the highly intelligent lizard, so it doesn`t detract from the compliment. Besides, fireweed can improve a Dragon`s breath quite a lot, as I think Firnen has just been taught. You should let him into your mind so he can tell you what he has learnt._

_If he heard me say he had bad breath he`d lick me!_

Arya heard a mental voice a lot like Firnen`s say, _what was that about my breath, little one?_

_Nothing! Nothing! Honest! Arya said, panicking. Nothing!_

Firnen didn`t reply, and she looked at Eragon, surprised, to see him laughing.

"What`s so funny? Firnen`s probably going to kill me!"

"Did you feel him enter your mind?"

"Well..." Arya stopped, a suspicion forming in her mind. "Wait... That was you?"

Eragon kept laughing, whilst nodding his head.

"You..."

"I`m sorry, Arya, but it was just so funny!"

She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him towards her, and looked him in the eyes, saying, "Do not do that again, understand?"

He nodded, mirth still in his eyes, but it turned into something else as she let go, and neither of them moved away, and they both began to move closer, and closer, and then they were almost touching, staring into each other`s eyes, and Arya's heart was pounding, and a mind brushed each of theirs, making the two of them jump back.

_Ebrithilar?_

_Yes, Taiven?_ Eragon asked.

_An hour has passed, and we were wondering where you were._

_We`ll be right there, Taiven._ Arya said, Casting a hesitant glance at Eragon, she stood, and they walked back to the students in an awkward silence.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Next!**

Eragon woke, looking at the sunlight streaming through the window. The room was large, with a big double bed, a wardrobe to the right, a small table to the left, with a jug of water, and a lot of spare space. Perhaps it was a bit over the top; it was much larger than the other bedrooms; but Eragon liked it.

He got out of bed and stretched, before turning round to look at a Fairth of Arya that he had made on the ship the day he left Alagaesia. It had all the depth, in fact, possibly a bit more, than the one he had made by the Ramr river. He then turned to the next, made a year after. To monitor his feelings, he had made one Fairth every year since he had left, and they had all been identical.

I can prove to her that my feelings haven`t changed with these. He looked at the latest one, and again he wondered if Arya had actually been going to kiss him, five weeks ago, when they had been in the forest together. It had looked like it, it had felt like it too, and why would she pretend, but he couldn`t stop the doubts coming to his mind. He always doubted himself when it came to things like that. It was instinctual. Arya had been a bit awkward around him for the rest of the day, and he had wondered about it, for he had likewise been awkward around her. He hoped that it showed that they felt the same way about each other, but he couldn`t be sure.

_Good morning, little one._

_Good morning, Saphira. It is an important day today._

_That it is, little one. Five years of work have built up to this day._

_And it`s a relief now that it`s finally here._

_Aye, that it is._

Eragon put on his best clothes, light blue trousers, (if you`re American you say pants,) a shirt that was the blue of the scales on Saphira`s back, and a cloak of royal blue. Saphira asked how he looked, and he sent her an image. For some reason she found it funny.

_What?_

_Oh, little one, if you`re thinking that will look impressive when I`m standing next to you, think again, for nothing can compete with the splendour of a Dragon, especially if it`s the same colour._

_Nevertheless, these are the best clothes I have, so I might as well wear them._

_As you wish, Eragon. Prepare to be outshone whilst looking your best._

_You always outshine me, you`re a Dragon. At least this time I`ll look a bit better than normal._

_True. I`d better clean myself, so you still look just as bad._

_Hey!_

He left the room, walking down the corridor. He stopped outside Arya`s door and knocked. She opened it, saying, "Eragon! What is it?"

"It`s the day those four become Riders in full. I thought you should be there when I tell them."

"I`ll come. Thank you for telling me, Eragon."

"You`re welcome, Arya."

They walked to the Hall together, talking about nothing in particular. When they reached it, Eragon said "Come!" in the Ancient Language, and a line of benches unfolded from the walls, coming in front of the Throne, on which Eragon sat. Arya headed for the front row of the benches, but stopped as she saw another throne slide out of the wall next to Eragon at a word. She raised an eyebrow at him, so he explained.

"As this is both an entrance hall and a meeting hall, I built four thrones into the walls, one for each of the leaders of the four races. As you are the Queen of the Elves, this one is for you."

Arya walked up to it, and touched the armrest. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Eragon." Arya said, sitting down. The throne was well padded and comfortable, a nice place to sit.

Eragon smiled, then he reached out his mind to summon the students. A few seconds later, he said, "They`re coming." Arya nodded.

The Dragons flew in through the doors, led by Saphira, who swooped through the hall to land next to Eragon`s throne, Firnen doing the same on the other side. The other Dragons landed behind the benches, Miremel, a brown female and partner to Taiven, Laenar, a glistening grey female and partner to Dusan, Hunvin, Aruk`s partner, a yellow male the colour of the sun, and Kundavar`s Dragon, Darvan, a pink male.

Five minutes later, the other Riders walked in, staring in surprise at the other throne and the benches. They hadn`t seen the hall like that before. They sat on the benches when Eragon gestured at them.

"Welcome, students. Today is a very important day for all of us, as it is the day where you become Riders in full."

The Riders expressions changed from surprised to stunned. They shot each other looks of amazement, and even the Dragons looked taken aback.

"Taiven, come forwards."

She stepped towards the throne, pleasure written all over her face, and knelt down on one knee.

"Do you promise to keep the peace between the races, to help those who need it, to act honourably and righteously, to judge fairly that which you are asked to judge, and to be willing to fight in order to do so?"

"I do," she said in the Ancient Language.

"Then I declare you a full Dragon Rider," Eragon said, touching her on the head with Brisingr.

He repeated the process with each Rider in turn, and then Saphira did the same with the Dragons.

"Your training is now complete. All that remains is for Rhunon, through you, to forge you each a Rider sword of your own. You will have some time to gather your belongings, and then you will all depart for Ellesmera."

The Riders nodded and left, their surprise still evident. Suddenly, Taiven stopped, and said, "Ebrithil, will I be able to spend some time with my family in Surda once I have forged my sword?"

Eragon considered for a second, then nodded. "You can spend a week there before returning here. Tell me when you arrive. And tell the other students that if they want to spend a week with their families, they can."

"Thank you, Ebrithil." She hurried out.

Eragon leaned back. "The latest generation of Riders is fully trained. That`s such a relief!"

"Is it that bad? When I was there you seemed to be enjoying yourself!"

"That`s because you were there."

Arya laughed. "Do I really make that much of a difference?"

He looked into her eyes. "Yes."

She raised her eyebrows. "Thank you, Eragon. I can tell you mean it."

"I do. I really do." She smiled at him. "Arya..." He trailed off. He had been going to ask her if she had been going to kiss him, but his nerve had failed him. He had been trying to ask her that for five weeks, but he had never managed to.

"Yes?"

"What? Oh, nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I`m sure. It`s nothing. I should contact Vanir now, to see if any of the eggs I gave him have hatched."

"Good idea, because you really need to see the people who will make the next five years just as tiring as the last five."

Eragon laughed. "Not to meet them, just to ask Vanir how many eggs have hatched yet. I`d better find a mirror."

Arya nodded, saying, "I`ll come too."

"Thank you, Arya."

"It`s my pleasure."

They stood up, and walked out of the hall, heading for Eragon`s quarters. As they waked down the corridor, Arya said, "My room`s closer, we can go there."

"Okay," Eragon said, surprised that she had invited him into her rooms, when they were not very much nearer than his. They reached the door, and entered.

Eragon looked round, surprised to see that most of it was unchanged. The only difference was that it looked more lived in. He peered round, trying to get a glimpse into her life. He saw that in the bedroom there was a picture on the wall. He tried to see what it was, then gasped when he saw that it was the Fairth he had made of her by the Ramr river.

_She values it enough to keep it all this time..._

"Finished staring?"

"Sorry, I wasn`t concentrating."

"You were concentrating quite a lot, I could tell."

"Well, I wasn`t concentrating on what I should`ve been concentrating on."

"And what were you concentrating on that you shouldn`t have been concentrating on?"

"Never mind," Eragon said, as he spoke the words of the scrying spell.

"But I do mind, and I`m curious."

_After this talk with Vanir, okay?_

_If you promise._

Vanir appeared on the mirror in front of them. "Greetings Eragon, Arya. I was about to scry you myself, as two of the Dragon eggs have hatched, one in Nadinel, and one in Osilon. I am now travelling to the Dwarves, with the new Riders, along the Az Ragni river towards Hedarth."

"Excellent, Vanir, that was just what I wanted to know. Also, you should probably know that the other Riders have now completed their training."

"That`s great news! So, the cycle starts again for the next generation of Riders..."

"Aye, that it does."

Vanir nodded. "Well, I guess I`ll see you in a couple of months with this lot."

"I guess you will. See you then!"

"See you!"

The mirror went blank. Eragon turned to Arya.

"If you must know, I was looking at the Fairth on the wall in your bedroom. The one I made for you."

"Oh, that..."

The conversation ground to a standstill, until Eragon said, "I`d better get back to my quarters, Arya. See you tomorrow to spar, yes?"

She nodded and smiled. "Of course, Eragon, just as usual. See you!"

Eragon left her quarters, heading back to his own.

_She must care for me a lot, she kept that Fairth, she was so happy to see me, and I`m almost certain she nearly kissed me! The trouble is, does she love me, or am I just a close friend who thought she was going to kiss me?_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Plans coming together…**

Once again, Orrin strode down the dark corridors of the castle, heading for the dungeons. The torches flashed past as he walked down the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the shadows. He reached a door and unlocked it. He walked in and looked at the man on the floor.

"Wake up."

The man stirred, then opened his eyes and leapt to his feet. There was a fury in his eyes that could surely be only matched by those of the blood-red Dragon that was staring through some thick metal bars in the wall of the cell.

"What do you want, master? said Murtagh, hate written all over his face as he looked at the King. His clothes were dirty and tattered, his sword had been removed and his hands were bloody, from where he had tried to break his shackles.

"Sit down Murtagh. Thorn, stay away from those barriers."

"What do you want, master? Murtagh repeated.

"Stop looking at me like that, for a start."

"You're treating me like a dog."

Orrin laughed, taking a stress ball out of his pocket. "Fetch," he said, throwing it across the room, and laughing even more when Murtagh was forced to chase after it. "Excellent, you have learned your place," he said as Murtagh held it out to him. "Actually, you can keep it. It's probably contaminated now." Murtagh snarled.

"Enough playing games. What do you want?"

"To tell you what you're here for. To defeat and kill Nausada."

"No... Please, no, I'll do anything..."

"You'll do anything anyway, Murtagh, that's why you're so useful."

"Please..." Murtagh was crying now, his head in his hands. "Anything but that..."

"I do not listen to begging, Murtagh. You will help me kill Nausada and that's all there is to it."

Murtagh threw back his head, yelling "Nooooooooooooo!"

Orrin laughed again, as Thorn began to roar as well. Then he came to his senses. "Be silent! I cannot risk someone hearing the two of you. Be silent!"

Murtagh glared at Orrin with all the hate he had ever felt.

Orrin was at his desk, torches lighting up the work. He wasn't doing much, just managing the finances. It was a boring job, one which hardly needed doing. It was much less fun than talking to Murtagh, which would surely soon become a favourite pastime of his. The look on Murtagh's face as he had told him that he was going to kill Nausada was exquisite.

"Uncle?"

"Taiven!" Orrin stood and bowed to the mirror, grinning. "How is the great Rider?

She was standing in a forest clearing, Miremel behind her, and other Riders and Dragons in the background. "A full Rider now, and heading to Ellesmera to forge my sword. I should be in Surda in two weeks. Where are you?"

"I am currently in Fenister, having travelled here to assess the troops. If you could join me here, it would be much appreciated."

"I shall come."

"Good. And how is everyone else there? Any rumours going round?" He asked, knowing that women were more friendly and relaxed when chatting about things like that.

"Well..." She considered. "Everyone's fine, and there aren't any rumours as such, but..."

"But what?"

"I suspect that there may be something going on between Eragon and Arya. Whenever they see each other they smile, they spar together every morning, they spend a lot of time together, and, well, when we didn't know where they were, I extended my mind, and I found them a mile away, in a clearing in the forest, and they were very close to each other, but when they felt my mind they jumped apart, and they behaved awkwardly towards each other for the rest of the day."

"Really? That's interesting..." Orrin wondered how he could use the information. It was a potential weakness in them both, but there was practically no way to capture either of them. "So, niece, I shall see you in two weeks, yes?"

"Yes, Uncle. I shall be there as soon as possible." She smiled, then ended the spell of scrying.

Orrin sat back, still looking at the now plain mirror, only to jump in shock as Nausada appeared. He stood and bowed again.

"Your Majesty! And to what do I own the pleasure of this visit?"

Nausada, in her large office again, bowed in response. "I am contacting you, once again, on the basis of a few rumours that have reached my ears."

Orrin hated her superior tone, the fact that they were equals, yet she had not bowed as low as him, and the fact that rumours were still reaching her, despite his best efforts to the contrary. "And what would these rumours be?"

"For one, rumours of a large army in Fenister." She glanced around the room he was in, and said, "It looks like you are in Fenister yourself."

"Yes, I came to assess the strength of the city, and as a break from Aberon. It is probable that this large army you speak of is merely my guards. A king must have his protection, yes? And in truth, there are not very many of them. Rumours are rarely very accurate."

"True, but I was curious. And I am still curious about a few other things."

"I shall be able to answer your questions more easily in person. May I suggest a meeting of leaders in Belatona in, let's say, two and a half weeks?"

"If you can explain more fully these rumours-and more-in person, then I shall be happy to meet you there."

"I can. So, I'll see you in two and a half weeks?"

"Two and a half weeks. Until then..." The image faded, leaving Orrin's plans a lot more complete. He sat down again, but he couldn't concentrate on the finances any more. His mind was full of his ambition, his hopes, his dreams, his reality in a few months.

_In two months or less, I shall control more than Galbatorix ever did! He never had Surda, and he only had Murtagh under his control. I shall soon have Taiven as well!_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Fairths.**

Arya looked again at the Fairth Eragon had made for her by the Ramr River. It had revealed to her the depth of his feelings, and his true name had emphasised that even further. She had said that, perhaps in time, something would come of it.

Now, time had passed, but she was unsure of her feelings. She knew that over the past few weeks Eragon had been wondering if she had been going to kiss him, and she had, at the time. But now, she was unsure how far her feelings truly stretched. She glanced again at the Fairth, a recent habit of hers.

_I wish I could find my feelings somehow..._

Firnen brushed her mind. _Why not do what he did?_

_What did Eragon do?_

_Don't you remember? He made that Fairth._

Arya stared at Eragon's Fairth for a second, then jumped up.

_Thank you so much, Firnen! I should've thought of that myself, but I guess it's just Dragon logic._

_On the subject of Dragon logic, I was looking through your memories when I found a rather interesting conversation featuring Dragon logic. It began with the words "I wonder what Murtagh's doing," and it ended with an interrupted attempt at a kiss. However, in the conversation there were some remarks about Dragon breath that should not go unnoticed. Little one, I shall have to lick you._

Arya winced. Firnen`s tongue was as rough and sharp as sandpaper made of gravel, with added meaty smell and slimy coating. _No, please. Anything but that._

_Then I shall have to tell Eragon how you feel._

_I would rather have the first, as I'm not even sure about the second myself._

_Ah, but I am though. But I shall not tell you, you should find out yourself._

_What, by making a Fairth?_

_Yes, but first, as you agreed, I shall have to lick you._

_Is there any other choice?_

_Me telling Eragon._

_Anything apart from that?_

Firnen considered, then said, _Not really, no. Of course, I could just leave you on the roof for the night._

_Not when I'm inside, you can't reach me then._

_Oh, can't I?_

_No. Now, I'm off to make a Fairth._

She walked out of the bedroom to find Firnen's head blocking the doorway to the little room with the Fairths. He was hovering outside, and he didn't touch the balcony as he hovered, sticking his neck through the large archway.

_Can't reach you, eh? Well, I can!_ He shot his head forwards, trying to grab her, and she leapt to the side, but his neck was still blocking the doorway.

_Firnen, stop! You'll wreck the room!_

_Will you let me lick you, then?_

_Not now, but-_

Firnen roared, and she continued hurriedly.

_But later, when I don't have anything important to do, and I can cast some wards around myself._

Firnen growled deep in his throat. _You had better keep that promise then._

_I will._

She walked around warily as he removed his head, heading for the little room. She opened the door, and picked up one of the pieces of slate. She put it on one of the hooks that lined the walls, and then hesitated.

_Do I really want to know how I feel, to know without a shadow of a doubt, without trying to find a different way, rather than just taking the easy route, the shortcut? Do I want to do this?_

_You do, little one. Look inside yourself, you know you want to know. If the shortcut is the shortest way, and you are in a hurry, then take the shortcut._

_Once again, Dragon logic._

_Once again, you remind me that you need to be licked._

_Don't start that again._

_No promises._

She sighed, and turned back to the Fairth. She thought back to Oromis's lessons.

_She was sitting next to Oromis, holding a slate tablet. The sun glittered off Glaedr's scales as he watched. Oromis was talking, and she was listening._

"_All you need to do is concentrate upon the image you wish to capture, and then say, 'Let that which I see in my mind's eye be replicated on the surface of the tablet.'_

_She nodded, and concentrated on an image of Glaedr. She spoke the words, concentrating hard, and a picture, not of the best quality, but quite good, came up on the surface. Oromis looked at it and smiled._

"_Very good for a first attempt, Arya. You have done well."_

She jolted out of her memories, as Saphira contacted her.

_Firnen told me what you're doing. Don't worry, I won't tell him-amusement flashed across their link-but I should tell you that when Eragon made the fairths, he didn't concentrate on an image, unlike the usual method for Fairths. He poured his emotions into them, rather than any specific image._

_Thank you, Saphira_. The blue Dragon withdrew from her mind, and she turned to the Fairth again. She prepared, bringing all she thought about Eragon to the forefront of her mind. She began to cast the spell, when there came a knock on her door.

"Eragon!" She jumped up, suddenly nervous. _Has Saphira told him? She couldn't! She promised!_

_Little one, she has not._

_Then what does he want?_

She sensed a little embarrassment coming from him, as she ran to the door. _He probably heard me roar earlier, and came to see what was going on._

_Oh, of course._ She opened the door to see Eragon, who was breathing quite heavily. He had evidently run from wherever he'd been.

"Arya! Was that Firnen I heard? What happened?"

"Firnen roared, yes. He had found out from my memories that I had said some things about Dragon breath, in the forest, do you remember?" He nodded, so she continued. "He said it needed punishment, and he said he'd lick me. I said he couldn't reach me indoors, but he stuck his head through the balcony. He roared, and I persuaded him to lick me at a different time instead, or he'd probably destroy the room. You didn't need to come all this way. It was nothing to worry about."

"But it might have been. I had to check. Anything could've happened."

"What could've happened here? We're a hundred miles or more from anyone else."

"I still needed to be sure. I had to be sure."

She looked up at him, smiling. "I know. I would've done the same."

He raised his eyebrows, then smiled and nodded. "See you, Arya…"

"See you."

He turned slowly, and walked away. She gently shut the door, then returned to the room. She brought up her feelings to her mind again, and cast the spell to make a Fairth. She shut her eyes as the colours blended, and then, when she was sure that it would be finished, she opened her eyes and gasped at the slate in amazement.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: More Fairths.**

Eragon walked away from Arya's room, heading for his own. He somehow didn't want to return to the clearing in the forest now, so he entered his quarters and sat down on the big chair, thinking of something to do. He tried meditating, but there were only trees and a few animals for miles, and when his mind kept returning to Arya he found it difficult to concentrate on what he was trying to do.

_What will keep me busy for quite a while..._

He thought, and he decided to write a poem. It was not something he had done often, in fact, the last and only time had been at the Agaeti Blodhren, six years ago now. He had read a fair few though, so he knew how they should go. He sat at the small desk and began to write.

However, like with the meditation, his thoughts kept being distracted.

_I need to do something that I won't be distracted from..._

He considered, then grabbed more parchment and began to write again. It would be a simple poem, just rhyming couplets, but he found in hard to do. So as to not be distracted by thinking of Arya, he wrote it about her, and his feelings for her. Fifteen minutes later, he looked back over it. He had not done much, but he liked it.

_She for whom I feel with all my heart,_

_In looks beautiful, yet that's just one part,_

_Heart of a dragon, grace of a dove,_

_The only one that I shall love._

He put the pen on the parchment, ready to continue, then he jumped as he heard a voice behind him.

"A good poem, Eragon."

He jumped up. "Arya!"

"Don't let me interrupt, this looks interesting." She grinned at him, gesturing to the parchment, which now had an ink splatter on it where Eragon had dropped his pen.

"How did you get in?"

"I walked through the door."

"Wasn't it shut?"

"Do you want me to keep out or something? It was open."

"I don't want to keep you out! In fact, I'd much rather you stayed in."

"Well, as I said, don't let me interrupt. Unless you don't want me to know what you're writing?"

"Well..."

"Eragon, I've already read it."

"True, but..."

"You're embarrassed? Eragon, I know how you feel, I know your true name, and I have the Fairth you made."

"True, but I get distracted."

"Do I distract you?"

"Well, yes. But anyway, why did you come?"

"Well, you've been in my rooms, in fact, you made them, and I was wondering what yours looked like. I saw you in here, and snuck in to see what you were writing."

"Well, if you want a tour, I'll show you around."

She smiled at him. "Of course, Eragon."

He walked to the door, and said, "Coming?" She nodded and followed. They walked around most of it, the large rooms, as Arya put it, "Made her room look like a dove compared to a Dragon," with a glance at Eragon as she said it. He had stared at the floor, embarrassed, until Arya said, "Eragon, you can look up, can't you?"

"What? Oh, of course."

"Good. Now, what's in there?"

"Oh, that's my bedroom."

She walked to the door and opened it, glancing around. She gasped at something, and walked in. Eragon followed, and saw her looking at the row of Fairths on the wall.

"Eragon..."

"One for every year, starting on that side. The one you're looking at is the most recent."

She looked at it, and said, "Well, you said your feelings wouldn't change. It seems you were right."

"Aye, I spoke the truth." He began to work up the courage to ask 'Arya, what is to become of us,' as he had last time, but she spoke first.

"Eragon, stop staring into space, alright? You keep doing that. Are you okay?"

"What? Oh, I'm fine."

"Good. Now, is there anything else in here that you haven't shown me?"

"Only the balcony," he said, leading her out of the room. They walked out of the archway that led to the balcony, and she gasped at the view, and at the size of the balcony. It was more than twice as large as hers.

"Don't you think you've made your rooms way more extravagant than the others?"

"You seemed pleased when I made your rooms a lot more extravagant than most of the others as well."

"Right, so your own are definitely a lot more extravagant than all the others?"

"I guess..."

"Does that mean you're elevating yourself above everyone else?" Arya said with a grin.

"As I said, you seemed pleased with all the extra stuff and space I gave you. And most of this is only because Saphira might want-or need-to come in at some point."

"True, but why can't Firnen come into mine?"

"Didn't he reach his head in?"

"Yes, but he couldn't fit entirely. He has grown since you first saw him, you know."

"True." He thought for a second. "I can make it bigger, if you'd prefer."

She raised her eyebrows. "You'd do that?"

"Yes. I will now, if you want me to."

"O.K, then. Thank you."

They turned and walked out of his rooms, and they entered Arya's. The light shone through the arch that led on to the balcony, bathing them in light as they walked in. Eragon stopped in front of the balcony, and began to chant in the Ancient Language. The balcony and the arch seemed to shake, then they began to smoothly stretch out, until they would easily accommodate Firnen. Eragon stopped chanting and walked onto the balcony, now nearly as large as his own. Arya followed, standing next to him, and then she grasped his hand.

"Elrun ono," she whispered. Thank you.

Switching to the Ancient Language, he said, "It is my pleasure, Arya. I'm glad you like it."

In the same tongue, she said, "Like it I do. It's very impressive."

He smiled at her. "Good." She smiled back at him, something that he couldn't quite identify flaring up in her eyes for a second. That look puzzled him, as he couldn't quite work out the feeling behind it. They turned around, and Eragon noticed something propped up against the wall.

It was a Fairth.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: One More Fairth.**

Eragon gasped and walked over to the Fairth, gazing at it in amazement. "Arya..." He trailed off, speechless.

In front of him, there was a picture on the slate. The image was perfectly detailed, the detail not only in the image but in the feelings shown and the depth it had, showing all it could possibly show of the subject of the picture.

The subject of the picture was Eragon.

He kept staring at it in amazement. He was stunned that Arya felt that way for him. It was as detailed as the Fairths he had been making of her, as if that was where she had got the inspiration. It was pure and it was honest, and Eragon`s heart was leaping around his chest with the knowledge that she cared for him just as much as he did for her.

_Does this mean she loves me? It must! If she feels the same as I do..._

He put the Fairth back down and turned to look at her. She was standing next to the balcony, where she had stayed while he walked over to the Fairth.

"Arya..." Eragon trailed off again, still surprised at the Fairth and the message it contained. She smiled at him, and her eyes seemed to light up as she gazed into his. He gazed back, staring into the emerald eyes of the woman he loved. It was, quite possibly, one of the happiest moments of his life.

"Eragon," she stated, and she began to walk towards him. He moved towards her as well, and they met in the middle of the room, staring into each other`s eyes for a long time, they didn`t know how long.

"Arya... I have to know... What do you feel for me?" Eragon said, breaking the silence. He thought he knew, he hoped he knew, but he had to hear it from her.

She smiled at him, and he could see happiness in her eyes, as she said, softly, "Haven`t you guessed already, from the Fairth, and from what nearly happened in the forest five weeks ago?"

"You mean... You were going to kiss me?" She nodded, and his heart nearly burst with joy. He felt like he was in a daydream, where anything was possible and all that he wished for happened, but he knew it was real, because if it wasn`t, Saphira wouldn`t be mentally laughing her head off at his reactions. He shut her out so as not to distract himself, as Arya spoke again.

"You can tell from the Fairth that my feelings are the same as yours. So, Eragon," she said, moving closer. "What do you feel?"

Eragon`s heart raced as he answered, "Arya, you know how I feel. I love you with all my heart, and always will." He smiled at her, the same way she was smiling at him. All of Eragon`s hopes of the past five years were realised as she replied.

"I love you too, Eragon, and I will for as long as I live." The sheer amount of joy on her face at that moment was immense, reflecting how Eragon felt. They stared at each other for a moment, then Arya grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him. He kissed her back, relishing the moment as they pulled each other closer, just wanting to be together, to stay together, for all eternity.

Arya was the happiest she`d ever been, just about. The Fairth had shown her that she loved him, and she had immediately rushed over to tell him, out of her amazement, and she had in the end managed to tell him, albeit through the Fairth. And she was kissing him, her heart leaping for joy. She felt his mind touch hers, and she let him in, just as she would with Firnen, their minds blending together, sharing memories, thoughts and feelings with each other, just as they would with their Dragons. It was a moment of intimacy, both mental and physical, and they both treasured it. All too soon, however, the moment was over, so they kissed again, each losing themself in the other`s mind.

Finally, they stopped, and turned as one, walking over to the now much larger balcony and leaning on the railings around the edge. Eragon put his arm around her shoulder, so she wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer and kissing him on the cheek. He smiled, and they kissed again.

_I said perhaps in time... But I can`t wait any longer._

_I know how you feel, because I`m in your mind._

She pulled him closer. _Well, obviously._ She relished the intimacy they shared at that moment, wishing it could last forever, but knowing it wouldn`t. She resolved to make as many moments like that as possible. It wouldn`t last forever, but she`d do the best she could.

_A good idea. How about we put it into practice_? He kissed her once more, their love for each other growing by the second. Saphira swooped down past the balcony with Firnen hard on her tail, staring at Eragon and Arya as they went. They reached out their minds to the Riders, and Saphira spoke to the both of them.

_I am happy for the two of you. Spend the time you have here when it`s just you wisely, for when others are here it is hard to find time to be alone._ She sent them an image of herself lying next to Firnen, with four other Dragons looking on in the background.

_Aye, remember what you each will have to do. And Eragon? Thank you for helping my Rider become happy again._ Firnen continued on from what Saphira was saying.

_The pleasure was mine, Firnen. Thank you for making Saphira happy._ Eragon replied._ I guess we`re even now._

_I guess we are, rider-of-my-mate._

_True, Dragon-of-my-mate_. Eragon pulled her close, then glanced at her and said_, I hope?_

_Your hope is correct._ She smiled at him, and he smiled back. They watched Saphira and Firnen fly off to one of Saphira`s favourite places, a cave in a hill about ten miles away, where she would often fly to relax a bit, just as Eragon did with the forest clearing. Arya could read his thoughts easily, which was how she found out what he wanted and answered his question before he asked it.

_We can go there if you want,_ she said, and she laughed at the surprise that came from his mind.

_How did you... Oh, of course. Do you want to go then?_

She smiled. _Yes, if you do._

_You know that I do._

_True._ They turned and walked out of the room, heading for the entrance hall.

Eragon walked through the forest, Arya at his side, heading for the clearing like he had five weeks ago. The scenery was the same, the place was the same, yet to Eragon, everything had changed. He was happier than ever before, he knew that Arya loved him, and that had changed his whole perspective of things. Now, everything seemed brighter, more vibrant, and more beautiful than before.

Especially Arya.

She seemed to brighten everything around her, the radiant smile on her face, the light falling on her hair, almost turning it golden, and the love in her eyes as she looked at him seemed to light up the whole world. She was, Eragon thought, the most beautiful person in the world, both in body and mind. And she was his mate.

_Surely,_ thought Eragon, _I have to be the luckiest person in Alagaesia._

_But Eragon, you are not in Alagaesia!_ Arya laughed, kissing him. He smiled.

_Luckiest person from Alagaesia?_ He asked.

_Actually, I`d say the luckiest person from Alagaesia is either you or me. Quite possibly it`s a draw._ He considered that for a second, then realised that he had to agree. They were both of roughly equal status as Lead Rider and Queen, they were both credited with helping to kill Galbatorix, they had each killed a shade, and they were both in love. He had to admit that they were just about even.

They reached the clearing and sat on the tree, just looking at each other, sharing memories of times they`d shared and things they`d done. She recalled the Fairth by the river, and the golden lily. He remembered their sparring and the mental combat under the coaching of Glaedr. And they both remembered the moment together in that very spot, where they had almost kissed, and they looked into each other`s eyes, with joy in their hearts that they were finally together, and they kissed as the sun set over Du Skulblaka Breoal, leaving two people much happier than they were when it had risen that morning.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Deloi.**

Taiven was tired. It was a week since the four Dragons and Riders had left Du Skulblaka Breoal, heading for Ellesmera, and the winds had been fair all the way. Dusan, who had been born in Ellesmera, said that they were getting close, as he flew ahead on Laenar trying to spot the city. He said that the trees were taller, older, and greener the closer you got to the capital, due to the songs the elves sang during their many festivals.

Suddenly, Laenar, a glistening grey Dragon, roared and surged ahead at a yell from Dusan. Miremel, Taiven`s brown Dragon, beat her wings harder and faster in order to catch up with them, followed quickly by Aruk and Kundavar, on their respective Dragons. Laenar sped up in reply, reaching an especially wide tree that Dusan looked down at.

Taiven and Miremel caught up, and Taiven asked Dusan, "What is it?" He smiled at her and said, "It is the Menoa tree, the mother of the forest. When we land, I shall tell you all its story. But before then, we must reach Tialdari Hall and meet whoever is in charge in Arya`s absence." As he spoke, Laenar wheeled around, heading towards the tallest trees so far. The other Dragons followed, back in Alagaesia for the first time since they had hatched, the first time in more than five years for the Riders. It was an important moment, and the pleasure of it drove away Taiven`s tiredness from all the traveling. She was ready to meet the leader of the elves.

As the four Dragons landed in a large clearing, a noble-looking Elf walked towards them. When all four had landed, he kept looking at the sky, as if expecting another, but he greeted the Riders after they dismounted, twisting his hand over his sternum. They replicated the movement, and then, one by one, initiated the traditional elven greeting, in no doubt about who was the most senior. When they had finished, the elf spoke in the ancient language.

"Greetings, Riders. It is good to see that you have learned the traditions of the elves. I am Lord Dathedr, and I am in charge of the Alfakyn, in the absence of Arya Drotting. Out of interest, do you know when we can expect her back?"

"In around six weeks, Dathedr-elda, as Firnen has roughly five weeks of training left," Taiven replied.

"Good... I take it you are here to forge your Rider swords?" Dathedr asked, although it wasn`t really a question. He knew that they were.

"Yes, Dathedr-elda. We are now full Riders, so we are in need of the swords." It was Dusan who replied this time, Laenar nodding behind him.

"Good, Dusan-finarial. And what are the rest of your names?" All the Riders and Dragons told him, and he nodded. "Come then, I shall take you to Rhunon. By the way, we have cleared out the quarters of the previous Riders to stay in Ellesmera, and I will show you to them after you meet Rhunon." They followed him through the trees, receiving pleased glances from all the elves they passed. Miremel, who was a bit shy, asked, _Why are they staring at us, little one? It makes me a bit nervous._

_They are pleased, Miremel! They are glad that the Dragons and Riders are growing strong again. You will have to get used to people staring at you, because humans are much more likely to do so._

_I suppose you`re right, but it makes my scales itch._

_Most of them aren`t even looking at us, they`re looking at a kull on a pink Dragon, which must look a bit silly the first time._

_True... I`d hate to be Darvan`s colour, brown is much more... natural, like the earth, or the trunks of the trees. Pink looks stupid, especially for a male._ So saying, Miremel raised her head and looked proud. It was just the effect Taiven had hoped for with the comment, because Miremel needed to be more confident around people, or humans would just overwhelm her.

Soon, they reached a house, where an old elf was waiting. She was standing next to a forge, her arms bare and strong, looking at the Riders as they walked in.

"Greetings, Shurtugalar, Skulblakar. You are here to forge your swords, yes?"

"Yes, Rhunon-elda. That is why we are here." Taiven replied, eager to both forge her sword and talk with an elf who was older than the riders themselves.

Rhunon smiled. "Good. Then I shall begin tonight, starting with you." She pointed at Taiven, who jumped.

"Why me, Rhunon-elda?" Taiven said, surprised that she had been picked.

"Because you were the first to speak up."

"Hey, good for you Taiven!" Dusan said, smiling.

She grinned back at him. 'Thanks!"

Then Aruk spoke to Rhunon. "Rhunon-elda, is it true that you learned your trade from Futhark, legendary Grimstborith of Durgrimst Ingeitum?"

"Aye, that is true." Aruk`s eyes widened. "Then it is indeed a great honour to meet you, Rhunon-elda."

"Well, you should probably all get some rest. You`ve come a long way." Dathedr stepped in. "I`ll show you to your quarters."

As they muttered goodbyes, Rhunon said to Taiven, "If you come here later today, you may have your sword within two days. I shall prepare what I can before you come."

"Thank you, Rhunon-elda." Taiven gave her a small bow, and left.

Miremel looked into the house at the top of the tree, glancing around the small, yet elegant room. It was simple enough, with all the necessities; a bed, a table, a bedside table, a small wardrobe for clothes, a few chairs and not much else. Taiven was relaxing on the bed, worn out after the long day, so Miremel gave her some energy, with the words, _It is time, little one._

Taiven glanced into the sky, and saw that the sun was going to set in a few hours. She jumped out of the bed, out of the door to the platform, and onto Miremel`s saddle. Miremel immediately jumped off, not bothering with her wings and landing on all four feet with a powerful thud. Taiven nearly got stabbed with a spike, but she managed to stop herself. Miremel bounded forwards towards the forge, hurrying towards Rhunon`s house.

It was two days after she had arrived in Ellesmera, and Taiven was about to see her sword for the first time completed. Rhunon spoke to her, holding a cloth over the completed sword.

"Taiven, you have worked hard to become a Dragon Rider, and you have toiled long into the night to make this... Behold, and know that you are truly a Dragon Rider!" Rhunon removed the cloth, revealing the sword.

It was a simple weapon, one-handed with a plain crossguard, a crystal embedded in the hilt, a thin point, and a thin blade.

"I give it to thee, Rider." Rhunon said with pleasure. "May it serve you well."

Taiven reached out to the sword, her sword, that she would use to serve Alagaesia as best she could. It was as light as a feather, and she spun it around with ease, cutting easily through the metal bars that Rhunon signalled to for practice. The blade cut clean through.

"Now, you must name your sword." Taiven considered that problem. She had no idea what to name the sword. She lifted it up, comparing it to her surroundings. It was the same colour as the earth on the ground, a good, plain, honest colour, a colour of nature, and she knew what she wanted to name the sword.

She proclaimed that, "It shall be called... Deloi."

Earth.

Rhunon raised her eyebrows, then nodded, and said, "I see you value the earth around you, Shur`tugal. It is a good name for a brown sword, as it is simple and natural."

Taiven nodded. "That was why I chose it."

"So, Uncle, I will see you in three or four days, yes?" Taiven was back in her tree house, packing away her few things and talking to King Orrin. She had returned from the forge with Deloi, and shown it to the other students. Dusan had then gone to forge his own sword, and she had returned to her quarters.

Orrin, in the mirror, nodded, saying, "If that is when you arrive, then yes, Taiven, I shall see you then. Take care, have a nice trip, and I shall see you in Fenister!"

She smiled. "You take care as well, Uncle." The mirror went blank as she ended the spell.

She mentally contacted the rest of the students, to say goodbye, then she and Miremel returned to the Tialdari Hall, said farewell to Dathedr as well, and then they soared off into the sky, heading for Surda.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: The King.**

Taiven looked down from Miremel`s back, looking down at Fenister. They had left Ellesmera four days ago, staying in Ileria on the second night. She had met Nausada, the Queen, who had asked after Eragon and the other Riders, and whom Taiven had quite liked. She was clever and she was friendly, and she had brought a country up from a war-torn land recovering from an evil king`s influence to a great nation in a time of peace, wealthy and prospering. She respected Nausada a lot for that.

But now, they were looking down upon another wealthy, prospering place; Fenister. It was a busy city, a large market on one of the main streets and a lot of people going about their business. Miremel began to tilt forwards into a dive towards the castle, coming out of the sun so as not to be seen so easily. she levelled out of the dive as she reached the keep, flapping down into the large courtyard. When she touched down, Taiven jumped off, landing on the ground with Deloi on her hip. "I wish to speak with King Orrin!" She declared to the courtyard in general. One of the men ran up to her.

"Madam, whom should I tell King Orrin has arrived?" He was no more than a boy really, and she looked down at him when she spoke.

"Tell him that his niece has arrived, just as he requested." The boy jumped a little as she spoke. "Yes, madam," he said, scampering away.

Five minutes later, the king strode through the entrance to the courtyard. "Taiven!" She rushed over to him and hugged him. "Uncle!"

Orrin grinned at her. "It`s great to have you back, you know. And, of course, Miremel." He walked over to the Dragon, and he bowed deeply. "The last time I saw you, you had only just hatched! You were about four feet long! And now look at you!" Taiven could tell that Miremel liked the king quite a lot, due to her immediate grin. Orrin turned back to Taiven. "And you were about the same size! Look at you now! A Dragon Rider!" He smiled at her again, and then said, "Come, we can talk more privately inside. Miremel can look through the window, that is, if that`s what you want, Miremel." He turned to Miremel, who considered for a second before speaking.

_That would be agreeable, your majesty._ Miremel spoke to them both. Then Taiven spoke to her only.

_What do you think of Orrin? He seems to be acting a bit different from normal._

_He`s being nice. Is it that unusual? _Taiven laughed at that, mentally, so as not to seem rude.

_No, but it seems like he`s being a bit too nice, if you get my meaning. It just isn`t normal for him._ And it was true. When she was little, he had seemed to like her, but not that much. They were family who had been apart, she supposed, so he would be like that, but it still seemed a bit over the top.

_Too nice? Taiven, there`s no such thing. That`s like saying caramel is too sweet, or Dragons are too strong and smart. It doesn`t make sense. You should just trust him. He is your Uncle, and he is a king. You should trust him to do the right thing._ Miremel`s speech convinced Taiven that she should trust Orrin, if only because he was related to her.

_Thank you, partner-of-my-heart. You have just proven how smart Dragons are. _She sensed pleasure flowing across their link. Then she glanced around at the rich furnishings and glamorous decorations that adorned the room they had entered. She sat down into a chair. It was comfortable, but she preferred the one back in her room in Du Skulblaka Breoal, if only because it was more lived-in.

Orrin sat down near her. He began to speak, his voice showing care and understanding. "Taiven, you know that I have no children. But you are my niece, and I want you to know, I care for you as I would my own daughter. You have learnt so much, and I am proud of you. You know how to fight, you can use magic, and you can even speak a different language, can you not, the both of you?" He smiled at her encouragingly.

"We can," Taiven said in the ancient language, proud of what she had learnt. Miremel echoed her words.

"And do the two of you trust me?" He asked, hope in his eyes. They replied as one. We do.

He smiled at them in pleasure. "And do you promise to do as I say?"

Without thinking, they each made the worst mistake of their lives.

As one, in the Ancient language, they said, We do.

Orrin stood up quickly and barked "Swear yourselves to my service in the ancient language!"

Taiven tried to say "What!" but as she opened her mouth the words that came out were oaths of fealty, and the same was happening to Miremel. Silently cursing herself for what she had done, what she was doing, Taiven continued speaking, knowing that she was binding herself to an unhappy future. If Orrin had tried to do that, then he couldn`t be planning anything good, or he could have just asked her, and she had a feeling that it would be a lot worse than she expected.

Once she and Miremel had finished speaking, Orrin issued orders to a man at the door. "... And bring him up quick, Zimar. Now Taiven, Miremel, I forbid you to do anything that I do not tell you to do, understand? Then speak."

Miremel roared noisily, and Taiven yelled, "YOU SON OF A-"

"Stop! I forbid you to insult me in any way."

"What are you planning to do? I doubt you bound us like this to tell us about your latest experiment." Taiven was seething with rage and insults that she couldn`t say. Orrin was not a man. He was a monster.

"Oh, you`ll find that out soon enough..." Orrin leaned back in his chair. "I must say, this all went extremely well."

_Taiven, I`m sorry. I told you to trust him, and look what happened..._ All the sorrow in the world seemed to be written over Miremel`s face and mind. Taiven tried to comfort her, unable to see the partner-of-her-heart in such a terrible state.

_Miremel, this is not your fault. Logic said to trust him, so we trusted him. I didn`t realise what he had said before we answered any more than you did. _

Miremel was reassured by that a bit, but she still replied, bitterly, _And there I was, talking of how strong and smart the Dragons are! Well, she said, at least my strength hasn`t been brought into question yet._

A few minutes later, the man, Zimar, led another man into the room. He was wearing rags, shackles, and a grim expression. He would`ve been quite handsome were it not for the ragged expression and the untidy beard that had grown up around his mouth. On his palm-Taiven gasped when she saw it-was a Gewedy Insignia, the mark of the Riders, which meant that she could hazard a guess as to who it was. "Murtagh?" she asked, naming the only Rider whose location was unknown to Eragon.

"Aye, this is Murtagh, sworn to me even as you are, who will serve me even as you will." Orrin answered her question. "Murtagh, you will be released from the shackles if you promise that you will not punch me, kick me, or do anything to harm me or anyone else, including yourself, using any of your limbs, or magic of any sort."

"I promise," Murtagh grunted in the ancient language. Orrin reached forward and undid the shackles. The moment he did so, Murtagh`s head shot forwards and broke his nose. Orrin collapsed to the floor, and Murtagh spat on him.

"The head is not a limb," he said, as half a dozen men grabbed him from behind.

"Take dem to de dungeons! Bodh of dem! Taiven, do not resist! Zimar, lead de damn brown dragon to de same room as de red one! And someone heal by dose!" Roared Orrin from the floor. Taiven was dragged down to a cell, and thrown onto the cold atone floor. Seconds later, someone else was thrown in next to her, but she didn`t care. She could only think of one thing.

_What have I done to myself?_


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: Scrying.**

Eragon put his hand around Arya`s shoulder, and she rested her head on his. He pulled her closer to him, kissing her on the cheek, and she smiled at him happily.

They were spending time together, as they had been for the past six days, resting on the large chair in Eragon`s rooms, now, of course, their rooms. Saphira and Firnen were training in the skies, testing his aerial manoeuvres, so they had the whole of the hall to themselves. They kissed, just pleased to be together and alone, sure that no-one would interrupt them, that they had an entire castle with only themselves in it. They were grateful for the privacy.

Suddenly, someone whistled from the side. Eragon jumped up quickly, glancing around for the intruder, before he saw Roran laughing at him in the mirror. The tips of his ears went red with embarrassment as his cousin looked at him, still laughing. Roran was standing in a comfortable looking room with a bed in the background. It didn`t seem to be similar to his castle he`d built in Carvahall, and Eragon wondered where he was.

"What?" Eragon asked, but Roran kept laughing and shaking his head. Arya walked up next to him as Eragon decided to just wait for an answer.

_There`s really no need to be embarrassed, Eragon. We are mates now, why should we hide that from people who have the right to know? _They had stayed in each other's minds ever since they had first kissed, and Arya took advantage of that to communicate without Roran realising.

_Then why are you hiding this conversation from someone who has the right to know?_ Eragon replied, jokingly.

Amusement flashed through her mind as she replied_. It is more private this way, more personal, and more convenient._ He nodded in acknowledgement as Roran began to speak, still grinning.

"Eragon! You didn`t tell me!" He chuckled again, and Eragon tilted his head questioningly.

"What didn`t I tell you, Roran?" He asked, but Roran just grinned harder.

"You know just as well as I do. You two!" He gestured towards Arya, then laughed. "I never even knew you were there, Arya, and look at the two of you! You could at least have dropped a hint!"

Eragon smiled, "Well, if you`d contacted us before, maybe you`d have found out that she was here, and you`d have found out at a time when we weren`t so... busy." Roran laughed again.

"Count it as payback for the times you spied on me and Katrina in Carvahall." Eragon narrowed his eyes, feigning annoyance.

"I never spied, Roran, I just saw you and teased you." Roran grinned at that, again.

"And I`ll be happy to return the favour." Eragon smiled for a moment, before talking again, his voice more serious than before.

"Why did you scry us, Roran? Is there something wrong?" Roran eased off on the grin, but he still smiled a bit, as if he couldn`t stop himself.

"There`s nothing really going on, I just wanted to tell you that everything`s going fine, Katrina and Ismira are as perfect as ever, and I`m in Gil`ead with Jormundur, to assess the strength of the troops and help with their training. I didn`t want to go, but apparently I`m a hero, the troops need inspiration, and as a lord I should pay more attention to the workings of the state. As a matter of fact, Arya, why aren`t you paying attention to the workings of your own state?"

"The elves, as an old race, know how to organise themselves. We have no major issues, no taxes, and no jobs, so the Queen is only needed in emergencies, for which they can just contact me the same way you have. Lord Dathedr could probably handle everything necessary for the whole of next year, as well as this one too." Mentally, she said to Eragon_, It`s true,_ in the Ancient Language.

"Well, that explains that. By the way, Eragon, Jormundur wanted me to tell you that Nausada is meeting Orrin in Belatona in five days. Aside from that, there`s nothing I have to say, apart from I just want to laugh at you even more." Eragon and Arya looked at each other, smiling, and Roran grinned at them again. "Well, I`ve got to go and tell everyone in Carvahall about you two, along with the rest of the Empire." Roran said, a teasing expression on his face.

"Not everyone! Calm down! Did I tell the whole of Carvahall about you and Katrina?" Eragon said, quickly.

"No, only Horst." Roran said, a smile on his face. "Does that mean I can tell him about you?"

With a glance at Arya, Eragon said, "Personally, I`d rather you just told Katrina, if that`s okay with you." To Arya, he said, _I`d rather have some time without everyone talking, if you`re alright with that._

_Of course, Eragon. I understand. _She smiled at him as Roran continued.

"Alright, alright, you win. I`ll just tell Katrina. Talk to you later, yes?" They nodded and said their farewells as the mirror went blank.

Eragon looked at Arya_. I`d better scry the other Riders to see what they`re doing at the moment, before they scry us at an inconvenient moment as well_. When she agreed, he turned to the mirror again and spoke the spell of scrying. The mirror went blank, then Kundavar appeared, standing with his Dragon, Darvan, in a clearing in Ellesmera. With a jolt, Eragon realised that it was the very clearing in which Arya had rejected him at the Agaeti Blodhren, all those years ago. But Darvan and Kundavar were not alone. Dusan and Laenar were there too, and Dusan was telling the story of the Menoa tree, a tale that saddened Eragon now even more than before, as he could imagine the love Laetri must have felt for the young man, and he could relate to how heartbroken she must have felt when he left her, due to his own experiences, which, luckily, had happened the other way around.

He glanced at Arya, who said_, Luckily for both of us, Eragon_. He sent his feeling of love across their bond, and she smiled in pleasure, before saying_, Eragon, you should talk to them now._ He nodded, as Dusan had finished telling the story.

"Dusan, Kundavar, how are you?" Eragon smiled as they both looked around and saw him. Judging by the angle they were looking at, Eragon guessed that his image was on the surface of a pool by the roots of a tree.

"Ebrithilar," Dusan said, quickly imitated by Kundavar. The Dragons, unable to communicate with them through the pool, nodded to the water.

"Have the two of you forged your swords yet? And where are Aruk and Taiven?" Eragon asked, wondering what the other riders were doing.

"Aruk is with Rhunon, forging his sword as we speak. Taiven has forged her sword, which she named Deloi, and she contacted me a few hours ago, to say that she had reached Surda, she was fine, but tired, and she wanted me to tell you that she had arrived, so that she wouldn`t have had to contact you, as she was worn out. She did look exhausted, so I agreed, and I planned to tell you when you contacted me, as you now have. Kundavar has yet to forge his blade, but I have made this," Dusan said, drawing a grey sword out of its sheath on his left hip. It was a hand-and-a-half sword, like Brisingr, but with a misty grey gem in the pommel, and a narrower blade, that glistened like mist in the sunlight. Dusan held it up to the sky, and proclaimed, "Rakr."

Mist.

It was a good name for a sword, Eragon realised, especially that one. The narrow blade would penetrate any gap in any armour, just as mist in the morning would slip through the slightest crack. It worked with the colour as well, mist being something that could not be ignored when describing it.

"You have chosen a good name, Dusan-finarial. Be proud of your blade. And Kundavar, scry me when you have arrived at your home, so that I will know when to expect you back. Tell Aruk to do the same." Eragon was glad that all the Riders were accounted for in one scry, as it made it much easier. He didn`t even have to scry Taiven, despite the fact that she was hundreds of miles away from the others. It had all turned out quite well. "Farewell, Riders, until we meet again."

"Farewell, Shadeslayer," Kundavar said, baring his throat in the Urgals` traditional gesture of respect, while twisting his hand over his sternum in the way of the elves. That was the highest mark of respect he could have shown, and Eragon bowed deeply in reply.

"Aye, farewell, Shadeslayer." Dusan echoed.

"Atra esterni ono theludin, Shur`tugalar." May good fortune rule over you, Dragon Riders.

They bowed in acknowledgement, and Eragon ended the spell. He turned to Arya.

"Well, we`ve got the place to ourselves for a couple more weeks." He smiled, glad just to be around her.

"Aye, that we have, Eragon, and our duties are done. Now, we can relax for a bit by ourselves." She led him back over to the chair, and he kissed her on the cheek and wrapped his arms around her.

_If ever everything was perfect, it is now._


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Trapped Together**.

Taiven groaned, leaning against the wall of the cell. Yesterday, the day she had been forced into Orrin's service, had been the worst day of her life. Not only had she been imprisoned, but she had been forced to lie to her friend, Dusan. Orrin had called her up and made her tell him exactly what Eragon had told her when she had left Du Skulblaka Breoal, and then to scry Dusan, act perfectly normal and tell him to tell Eragon that all was fine. She hated to speak anything untrue to anyone, but what made it worse was that she had had no choice, and it was exactly the opposite of the truth that she had told her friend.

She cursed herself for being so stupid. She should've realised what was going on, and she blamed what had happened on herself. She had never felt so wretched. She was not allowed to use magic, have her sword or leave the dungeon.

And she wasn't the only one there.

At the other side of the room was Murtagh. He had been beaten for breaking the King's nose, which had been healed by a magician, and he was worse off than she was. He was chained to the wall, and he had been drugged, so he couldn't contact Thorn, his Dragon.

But Taiven couldn't understand how he could be there. He was one of only three people in the whole of Alagaesia who knew the Name of the Ancient Language, the other two being Eragon and Arya. Words and spells could not hold him, he could strip people of their wards, and he could do practically whatever he wanted. Yet here he was, tied up, nothing to fight with, at the mercy of an evil and powerful king-again-and being controlled against his will.

_How is it possible?_ Taiven wondered, despite the fact that neither she nor Miremel had managed to work it out.

_I don't know, little one. It is a mystery to me, and, I think, you too._ Taiven sighed. Miremel was right, she didn't have a clue how Orrin could've done it. However, little one, I think, if you want to know, you should ask him. He is more likely to know than we are to find out.

_Of course! Better to ask someone knowledgeable then to debate pointlessly over that which you may never know._ Taiven looked at Murtagh, suddenly shy of him. He was, after all, a much more senior Rider, and he might not appreciate the 'help' of a fifteen-year-old.

_Taiven, you are not just any ordinary fifteen-year-old. You are a Rider, and a full Rider at that, and even if you aren't as old as him, any help is welcome in a bad situation._ Miremel's words filled Taiven's head, and she acknowledged their wisdom.

_You are right, partner-of-my-heart. I shall talk to him. _Taiven stood up, and she began to walk over to Murtagh. After a second, she knelt down in front of him and opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

"Who are you? Why are you here? What does Orrin want from you? How do you know who I am?" The voice that he spoke with now was very different from the angry voice filled with rage that he had spoken to Orrin with. It was quiet, stripped of all the hate and sarcasm, just a voice of sadness and sorrow, a voice that spoke of tortures endured, violence forced, and bad memories of long ago brought up again with even more sadness and even less hope of escape.

Taiven was shocked by the voice, for it didn't bode well for her if she was headed for the same sort of thing he had been through. Nevertheless, she answered the questions.

"My name is Taiven, and I am a Dragon Rider. My Dragon is Miremel, and we were trained at Du Skulblaka Breoal by Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Barjutskular. We came here after forging my sword, Deloi, in Ellesmera, to visit my Uncle, who, unfortunately, is King Orrin. He wants to control us to make us do what he wants, as I presume he does with you, and we know who you are because Orrin said it was you, and I saw your Gewedy Insignia, and I knew that the only Rider that I hadn't met before was you." He raised his eyebrows.

"You're Orrin's niece?" When she nodded, he continued, "So how does he control you?" She launched into the story of what had happened when they had arrived, and he listened, nodding. "Well, it seems that he is cleverer than I thought... How are Eragon and Saphira? How far away are they?"

"Eragon and Arya are both at Du Skulblaka Breoal, the home of the Riders, and the others, at the moment, are probably in Ellesmera, unless Aruk has finished his sword. Du Skulblaka Breoal is a week's journey away from the borders of Alagaesia, and that's with prefect flying conditions." Murtagh didn't look pleased at that news.

"Blast it! That means Orrin could take over half of Alagaesia, if he's quick, before Eragon and Arya even arrive! And the other Riders won't be half as powerful! No offense, "he said, with a glance at Taiven, "but no-one who doesn't know the true name of the ancient language can possibly be half as powerful as them."

"None taken. But if you know the Name of the Ancient Language, how can you be controlled like this?" Taiven asked the question that she'd been wondering all along, the reason, in fact, for her talking to him in the first place.

Murtagh paused, thinking. "Well, he controls me using my True Name. I take it you know what that means?" When she nodded, he continued. "Well, he had found a magician who knew it. The magician was a cunning man when it came to things like True names. He was there in Uru'baen, I think his name was Nirven, and he had heard Galbatorix say my True Name, so he knew it." Taiven interrupted.

"And that's how he knew it, and he told Orrin?" Murtagh, however, shook his head.

"No, my True name changed. That was how I managed to escape him and help Eragon. The magician, I presume, had fled the castle when that happened, but he had been spying on me beforehand. He had seen where I went, and he watched me, and he guessed that my true name would change, and-"

Taiven interrupted again. "But how would he know that? What made it change, and how did he know it would?" Murtagh sighed.

"What made my true name change is private, and I shall not elaborate on the answer I give you. I shall tell you this much; I fell in love." Taiven gasped at that, then fell silent as he went on. "He saw my feelings, I guess, and he worked out a name that he thought it would change to. He was cunning, and he got it right. He fled Uru'baen when the Varden arrived, and a few months ago, Orrin found him. He told Orrin that he knew my True Name, that he was valuable, and Orrin's delusions of grandeur and power took hold, if they hadn't already."

He paused for a second. "Most of what I just said is guesswork, and no-one will be able to tell us if it's true or not, as he's dead now. But anyway, Orrin had him scry me, and Nirven said my True name and commanded me to be silent. Then, Orrin came into view, repeated my Name, and stabbed Nirven in the back to keep him quiet. He commanded me not to say the true name of the Ancient Language. He forced me and Thorn to come here, and here we are, none the wiser about what he wants, and here you are too. One thing is certain: Orrin is risking a lot, doing this, so he must be playing for a large prize. And the largest prize he could want is the Empire." Murtagh fell silent, a troubled expression on his face.

"Thank you for telling me, Murtagh. I appreciate it, and I shall help you free yourself any way I can. You have been through too much to deserve any of this again." Taiven meant it. If anyone deserved freedom, it was Murtagh.

"Oh, all I have to do is survive until Eragon and Arya get here. Unless they forget the true name of the Ancient Language, they'll free all of us in a second, and kill Orrin and his Magicians with the next." Murtagh said, dismissively.

"Exactly, Murtagh, which is why you will tell me a way to make them forget it. Now!" Orrin strode through the door, the man who had brought Murtagh up when Taiven had arrived following him. Taiven stood up hurriedly and backed off a bit. She didn't want to be near Orrin.

With an expression of deepest regret on his face, Murtagh was forced to speak. "Master, the only possible way to make them forget the Name would be to make me use the Name to make it immemorable. Then, no-one could ever use it again." Orrin's eyes lit up, and Murtagh stared at the floor. "What have I done?" Taiven heard him whisper. "What have I done?"

Orrin almost smiled in triumph. "Murtagh, I command you to make the name of names immemorable!"

Murtagh remained silent. Orrin frowned, and repeated himself. "Murtagh, I command you to make the name of names immemorable!"

Murtagh still remained silent. Orrin went pale, and spoke again, a shiver in his voice. "Why have you stopped obeying me? Answer!" Though he tried to sound impressive, Orrin looked scared.

"Because you said I couldn't speak the True Name of the Ancient Language, and I cannot disobey." Murtagh said. Taiven looked at Orrin, who seemed angry.

"Murtagh, you can only speak the True Name of the ancient language in order to make it immemorable, and for no other purpose. Do you understand?" When Murtagh grunted a yes, Orrin continued. For the third time, he said, "Murtagh, I command you to make the name of names immemorable!"

Murtagh took a breath, and spoke a word of great power. It seemed to echo everywhere, and Taiven gasped as she heard it and remembered it. Murtagh continued slowly, looking up at Taiven, pleading with his eyes, trying to get a message across. The message was, use it, now, and Taiven gasped as she understood. She gathered her strength and breathed in deeply, about to speak the word and free herself, Miremel, Murtagh and Thorn. The magician at Orrin's side saw her, though, and barked 'Letta!' Taiven felt her tongue freeze, and realised that he had stopped her from saying the Word. She looked at Murtagh, who glared angrily at the magician, and she tried to say 'I'm sorry,' but her tongue remained motionless. Murtagh finished speaking, and all Taiven remembered of the Word was gone, along with her main hope of freedom.

Orrin chuckled. "Well, the boot's on the other foot now! Now, it just comes down to manpower, and I have more men than Nausada! I shall wipe her off the face of the earth!" With that, he strode off, the man who had cast the spell on Taiven removing it and leaving.

She looked at Murtagh, who seemed as if he thought he had lost something dear, or caused something dear to be lost, and he raised his head, yelling "Nooooooooooooo! Why? Why?" Taiven looked on in surprise. She hadn't thought Murtagh was the sort of person to do something like that.

"Murtagh, I'm sorry I didn't speak quickly enough. I could've stopped this." She spoke hesitantly, afraid he was angry at her, but he looked up at her, a small smile on his face.

"It's not your fault, Taiven. You did the best you could, and if it hadn't been for that magician, we would be out of here by now, heading to Ileria to tell Nausada, and she wouldn't be going to die..." He trailed off, deep sadness in his voice.

"She isn't definitely going to die. Eragon, Arya, Saphira, and Firnen will stop them. All the other Riders too. You'll see. They'll come." Taiven desperately tried to reassure Murtagh, knowing that he could help her get out of there. If he was depressed, he would be no help to anyone, least of all himself.

Murtagh smiled at her, but he still didn't look really convinced. "Thanks, Taiven. I appreciate it, I mean, the reassurance."

"That's alright, Murtagh. I'll do my best to help." She smiled, and he smiled back.

_Little one, how will we escape now? _Miremel said, worried.

_I guess we'll have to wait until either our True Names change, or someone kills Orrin. Only then will we be free again..._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: Battle Plans.**

Taiven was standing at a table, a large map of Alagaesia spread in front of her, along with several maps of individual cities, among them Belatona, Dras'leona, and Ilirea. Murtagh was standing next to her. His face was expressionless as he gazed at the maps, but Taiven could tell that he was furious with himself for what he had been forced to do earlier that day, that is, keep Eragon and Arya from speaking the true name of the ancient language, and for what he was doing now.

They had been brought up to the King by the man who had frozen her tongue, who Orrin had called Zimar. Orrin had commanded them to help him plan the conquest of the Empire in any way they could, so she was forced to speak whenever she saw a possible weakness, as was Murtagh.

Orrin stood across the table from them, staring at the map of Belatona. He began to speak, making no attempt to hide the hate and contempt that he felt for the Empire and its queen in his voice.

"As I have arranged to meet Nausada at Belatona in five days, it would be a good idea for me to lead a force inside the city, to open the gate from within. Once we have done that, our forces hidden outside and spread out through the city, crushing all resistance, until we reach the main castle, which we surround and break into, killing Nausada and all of her puny guards. With them gone, the rest of the Empire will be ours for the taking. The only experienced leaders they have are Jormundur, the second-in-command, and Stronghammer, who is up in Carvahall, but without Ilirea, even they have little hope. Luckily for us, Jormundur is in Gil'ead, assessing the troops there."

Taiven was forced to open her mouth, and speak her worst fears. "In Belatona, your force should capture the keep, not the gate. Then if you tell them to leave the gate open as you go in, and the arriving troops are fast enough and near enough, perhaps advancing under cover of darkness, then the enemies will have no-where to flee to, as we will have the keep. Then, cavalry can charge down the streets, killing any soldiers they meet." She hated what she was doing, as she knew that it could lead to the loss of Belatona, all its soldiers and the queen, but she had no choice. She would rather have committed suicide then done it, but Orrin had barred her from the prospect. There was nothing she could do, and yet again she blamed herself.

Orrin laughed an evil look in his eyes. "Well done, Taiven. You have helped me a lot." He laughed again upon seeing her face, seeing the loathing that she felt for both him and herself. He seemed to take pleasure from the pains of others, and both Taiven and Miremel, who was trapped in a large dungeon with Thorn, Murtagh's Dragon, hated him for it. They were both unable to make any sound willingly, in case someone heard, but they could communicate mentally.

_Taiven, do not dwell on that which you cannot change. You made a mistake, yes. It was a bad mistake, yes. But you cannot change that now, so stop feeling sorry for yourself and try to work out a way to solve this problem! _Miremel said, interrupting Taiven's unhappy thoughts. Taiven realised she was right. She wasn't helping herself by moaning, so she should stop it. Orrin continued talking.

"At Dras'Leona, the city is larger, and so is the force. We shall need the siege engines and the largest battering ram in order to break down the gate. Our ships at Dauth can sail up the Jiet River and bombard the city from Leona Lake. I don't want to waste them on Belatona, and they might be suspicious there anyway. There are no secret entrances. The only one was destroyed with the cathedral, in the ruins of which I found this..." Orrin trailed off, looking at his belt. It seemed perfectly normal, even a bit plain, unlike everything else Orrin was wearing, so Taiven reached out her mind to it, determined to find out what was special about it. She almost gasped in shock as her mind came into contact with the belt. In it were twelve stores of energy, probably jewels. They contained a substantial amount of power.

_How did he come by such a thing? Does he know how much energy it contains? He can't, he isn't a magician. That means that there aren't any wards against stealing its energy... He probably only wears it because the jewels look pretty. _Taiven wondered how she could use the information as Orrin continued.

"A main assault on one gate will be best, as we won't have to divide our troops and risk a large unit somewhere wiping lots of our troops out. Dras'leona is more densely packed, we'll have to rely less on cavalry, so I'd rather they didn't participate at all. We'll try to penetrate right through the middle of the city, and then, if they regroup behind us, carry on, split our forces and attack them from both sides. If they don't regroup behind and they retreat to the main castle, we shall bring forward the battering ram, break in and take the keep. We take all the provisions we can, and head for the Capital." Orrin looked at Murtagh and Taiven. "Any suggestions, O Riders?" His sarcastic tone made the other people around the table-a few magicians, including Zimar, and the general of the army-laugh at Taiven and Murtagh. Taiven glared at them, but they laughed even more.

When neither she nor Murtagh suggested anything, Orrin continued with the plan for Ilirea. "We shall reach the capital before the Riders do, and before any reinforcements from Gil'ead can arrive. From there, we break down the gate or scale the walls and open the gate that way. From there, it will be an uphill battle towards the centre, but the roads are wider than Dras'Leona, so our cavalry can charge first, then retreat for the foot soldiers to continue the advance. There will be more soldiers here, so we will need better tactics than ever, despite our numerical advantage. Any suggestions?" Here, Murtagh spoke up.

"If the cavalry can penetrate deeply, and they reach this crossroads with a decent amount of men, they can split in two and charge down these other two roads," said Murtagh, placing his finger on the map and signalling to the roads he meant. "This will mean that they eliminate a number of the soldiers that would otherwise attack from the side, and they can clear up the road around the edge of the city wall, before withdrawing to guard the battering ram as it moves towards the keep." His voice was low, dark, and almost mournful already as he thought of the people whose fates he had just decided. Once again, Orrin laughed.

"Excellent, Murtagh, excellent! The protectors of the land working against it! Marvellous!" Orrin gestured to the man, Zimar. "Take them back to the cell. Their work is done, for today. Once we are closer to Ilirea, we shall plan its defence from the Dragons. Until then, I have no need of them. They shall not be taking part in the fighting until Eragon and his friends arrive. They shall be my surprise, wielding my secret weapon!" Taiven frowned at that. She could not imagine a secret weapon that could hold off a Dragon, let alone two of the most experienced Dragons and Riders in the world.

"What secret weapon is this? You know we cannot tell anybody, so why wait before revealing it to us?" Taiven asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. Orrin looked at her, and then Murtagh, and then he grinned.

"Why not? You ought to see the thing that shall kill your masters. You too, Murtagh. Come." He led them through a door, down towards the dungeons. "This is one of my greatest secrets. It was hidden in Dauth, and it was Surda's reason for defying Galbatorix, in the hope that we could kill him with it. However, I was personally... unwilling to hand it over to the Varden when they joined us there. Then, I felt, it would be their victory, not ours. There would be no honour in that, so I hid it. It has now been transported here, for use against Saphira, for without her, Eragon is nothing. Behold!" He said, opening a door. Taiven gasped as she saw a spear, not just any spear, a golden spear, with a barb or the end, set on a wall. She couldn't identify the material, and it seemed to shimmer around the edges. It was inscribed with elven runes that Taiven had to move closer to read.

"Lovissa..." she read.

Lily.

"Aye, Taiven, that is Lovissa, the Golden lily. It is one of the only two surviving Dauthdaertya, the elves weapons for killing Dragons during the Dragon war, and it shall soon be used again for its original purpose. It can cut through any wards or defences. Your masters shall not stand a chance." As Taiven and Murtagh stared at it in horror, Orrin began to laugh again. His voice echoed through the castle, and through Taiven's mind, where it stayed, her fear replicating it in her mind again and again and again, as she fought to control herself, to stop her fear and replace it with a speck of hope, but it was a near futile endeavour, and Orrin's laugh echoing inside her head filled her with even more apprehension.

_Is there any hope at all?_


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: Riders.**

Kundavar and Darvan flew through the Spine, heading for Nar Garzhvog's village. It was where Kundavar had been raised, hunting game far and wide, for twenty years, and he knew the mountains and how to find his way in them perfectly. When he had got his horns, he had stayed out in the mountains, alone, for a week, searching for something big and powerful to kill, as was the custom. He had known where he was in relation to the village perfectly, as he did now. He had found a pack of wolves, and, knowing that killing a single wolf was the sort of thing an Urgal who was weak would do, he waded into the middle of the pack, punching, kicking, grabbing and lashing out with his horns at every wolf he could. He had been bitten once, but by the end, six wolves lay dead and the rest had fled. He had returned to the village, carrying the wolves, within two days, and the whole tribe had acknowledged his strength. It had been one of the proudest moments of his life, and it had been celebrated with a feast, many deer being caught and cooked. He knew that the same would happen for his return.

However, during his studies, he had meditated in the forest, and had come to an understanding with regards to the animals around him. The animals whose minds he had spent time in had been concious, living beings. He understood them, and he had realised that what he had been doing all his life, eating them, had been causing them pain, and was unnecessary, as you could, as the elves did, and as Eragon did, eat things that would not be hurt by it, such as plants, instead. He had come to the realisation when a rabbit that he had been watching had been startled by a fox that he had also been watching. He felt its panic as it jumped as high as it could away from the fox, he felt its pain as it hit the steep slope of a cliff, he felt it's life force be extinguished as it landed and broke its neck, and he saw the fox gorge itself on the dead rabbit. Eragon had been happy that the notoriously proud and stubborn Urgal had come to that realisation and decided to stop eating meat, as it meant that he was opening his mind to other possibilities than the ways he had followed, showing that he was ready to accept other options, a valuable skill for a Rider.

He was fearful about what would happen if he declined to eat the meat cooked for him. It would seem to be an insult to the tribe's honour, and they would not thank him for it. Then, Darvan spoke up.

_Kundavar, be brave. Take what is offered to you, or it shall go to waste. Better to eat something that has already been killed so that you can eat it then to let it go to waste. That would be an insult to the memory of the animal. I eat meat. You ate meat. They,_ Darvan gestured in the direction of the village with his tail, _eat meat. It is a way of life for many._

_And a way of death for many others, Darvan._

_Be that as it may, we have to fight and kill to survive. I know this as well as any. The other Dragons think that my colour is bad, that it looks stupid, that it is ridiculous for a male. As a result, I train twice as hard, and I fight twice as hard, and I hunt twice as hard. It is a necessity. Why do you think you have those horns? Just for show? They are for combat, for fighting, for killing. Why do you think you are Kull? For the same reasons. The act of killing is one that the both of us are made for, Kundavar, and you cannot deny it. Why, then, deny yourself what you were made to do? If you won't give in-_

_I won't._

_-then at least don't be rude to your Tribe. Eat what they give you, and don't make them think of you as weak. You are a Rider, and you will do what is necessary._ Kundavar thought over what Darvan had said. It was true that he shouldn't dishonour the tribe, but he was unwilling to give up what he had decided.

_I will do what is right: I shall respect them and honour their customs, although I shall not follow them myself. Now, let us land_. Kundavar made his decision. Darvan growled in acknowledgement, and swooped down towards the village. As he began to dive, he pulled up suddenly, staring at something in the distance that Kundavar couldn't quite make out, then he shook himself and dived again, before Kundavar could ask what he had seen. Darvan dived fast, the mountains becoming a blur around them, and he flared his wings and flapped once, twice, then landed gently in the centre of the village.

That night, Kundavar had feasted with the Tribe, eating meat, remembering the taste, liking it, but promising himself that unless it was a similar occasion, he would not do so again. In the morning, a wrestling competition was held. Kundavar joined, and he defeated many opponents. Darvan looked on for the first few fights, then said, _Kundavar, I would like to go and investigate something I saw whilst we were arriving. I may be a long time, but do not worry for me, whatever you feel. I shall be fine. _Kundavar had worried about that, then he had decided that Darvan could do what he wanted, and Darvan had flown off.

As weapons were not allowed, Kundavar had left his newly forged sword, Otrag, to the side. It was a two-handed sword, for him, which meant around six-handed for a human, and it was very long and wide, doubtlessly the biggest Rider sword ever. It was called Otrag, which meant 'circle' in the language of the Urgals, because Kundavar had recognised that the history of the Riders had come around in a circle since its beginning, starting with one Rider, called Eragon, growing fast, and now, the cycle had begun again, again with a Rider called Eragon, and with Otrag he intended to help the circle come around again, without them all getting killed this time.

Kundavar, continuing the competition, was squaring up to another Kull, ready to charge, when he felt great pain in his right leg, and stumbled, close to the ground, and he heard a Dragon's roar in the distance. It was followed by another roar and the Kull he was wrestling charging at him. He put his hand on the ground and spun round, legs outstretched, knocking the legs of the other Kull out from under him. Kundavar jumped up and grabbed the Kull's horns before he could get up, keeping him on the ground. The Kull submitted, as competitions were not fights to the death, and Kundavar nodded to him, before walking to the side and sitting down to recuperate and contact Darvan. He looked into the sky before he did so, and he saw two bursts of fire, rising upwards, coming from the mouths of two Dragons, one pink and one red. He reached out his mind to Darvan, who interrupted what he was trying to say.

_Do you mind? A bit of privacy would be nice!_ Darvan then shut him out, and Kundavar realised that Darvan had met one of the fifty-odd wild dragons that had hatched since the fall of Galbatorix. Eragon had had Vanir carefully transport them to different places around Alagaesia, where they had survived and thrived so far. Some eggs had been laid, and, Kundavar realised, if Darvan had any say in the matter some more would be laid soon. He cut off his connection with his Dragon, so as not to invade his privacy, and returned to the competition.

Aruk and Hunvin were landing in Tarnag, ancestral home of Aruk's clan, the Ragni Hefthyn, the River Guard. Dwarves looked up, cheering, yelling "Argetlam!" as they saw the sun-yellow Dragon with the dwarf on its back. Hunvin did a barrel roll, specks of sunlight glinting off his yellow scales, flashing golden light everywhere, and let out a blast on fire into the sky. The dwarves stopped cheering for a moment, awestruck, then started yelling again with renewed vigour.

_You show-off! There was no need for that!_ Aruk told Hunvin, who was grinning at the dwarves.

_Oh yes there was. I needed to create a good first impression, an impressive first impression, so that none of the dwarves decide to do what Az Sweldn rak Anhuin did when Eragon and Saphira were here, don't you remember that?_ Aruk shuddered as he recalled the memory.

_He was a young dwarf, walking down the street with his father, who had later died at the battle for Uru'baen, when his father had stopped and pointed. "Argetlam!" he exclaimed, is face lighting up. He had lifted Aruk and put him on his shoulders, and Aruk had seen a Dragon._

_The Dragon was sapphire blue, noble, proud, and majestic. She strode down the street, following a dwarf with the symbol of the Ingeitum on his helm and an elf, with a slender sword, an elegant bow, and a stride that seemed more graceful than any Aruk had seen before. There was a Rider on the Dragon's back, looking around the city, a red sword on his hip, his helm on his head, resting his hand, which had a silvery mark on it, on the Dragon's scales._

_Suddenly, as the four came level with Aruk, dwarves with purple veils over their faces stepped out in front of them, challenging them in Dwarfish. An argument with the dwarf that was leading the Dragon followed, and upon seeing the Rider, a dwarf had taken an iron ring from his belt, wrapped three of his hairs around it, and thrown it at the Rider, a sign that meant a blood feud between the clan and the Rider had begun._

Aruk snapped back to the present, shaking his head. _You have a point, Hunvin. They are much less likely to do anything foolish if they are afraid of us, or at least if they think we are powerful._ Hunvin nodded.

_Especially because we are powerful_! He swooped down, majestically, to land in the courtyard of the castle. Aruk dismounted, walking along to where Undin, the clan cheif of the Ragni Hefthyn, was standing next to Gannel, clan cheif of the Quan, the religious clan, the priests who made sacrifices and called upon Guntera to crown the Kings. He bowed to the both of them, and they bowed back, surprising him. Undin, whom he had always liked, came forwards.

"Greetings, Aruk. You have a new sword." he said in Dwarvish, gesturing towards Kuldr, the sword on Aruk's hip. The name meant 'Gold,' because it seemed nearly golden in colour, and because it would be something very precious to him, and gold was treasured by every dwarf. It had a long hilt, though not as long as Kundavar's, and the blade was wider at the end. It was a sword, but it was formed with a noticeable similarity to an axe. It was, to Aruk, perfect.

"Aye, Grimstborith Undin. It is my Rider weapon, for I am a Rider now," Aruk said with pride, as Undin nodded.

"Well done, young dwarf. You are the first dwarven rider ever, and I know that you shall make our race proud." Aruk held his head high then, proud of what he had done, proud of what Hunvin had done and proud that Undin recognised it. "A feast shall be held in your honour, and our people shall hunt Nagra, to honour you even more. Now, you may do as you wish, visit your mother, your friends, or fly off to wherever you like. I only ask that you return in time for the feast." Undin then bowed to Hunvin, saying, "Greetings, Mighty Dragon. I hope that you like the taste of Nagra, for one shall be cooked especially for you."

Hunvin shot a bit of fire out of his nostrils then, nodding his head and telling Aruk, _Tell him that although I have not yet tasted it, I am sure that it shall be very flavoursome, especially as you say it is so good._ Aruk relayed the words, and Undin nodded.

"I am glad that you regard our opinions so highly, Hunvin. I hope you shall not be disappointed." Hunvin nodded again, and Undin spoke to Aruk. "You may do as you wish now, Aruk."

Aruk nodded and mounted Hunvin again, with the words, "I shall see you again at the feast, yes?" When Undin nodded, Hunvin took off, scales glinting in the light. One thought was running through Aruk's mind.

_Dwarves will risk their lives catching the Nagra. I shall have to honour the risk they take and eat it, no matter how repulsive I find it._


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: Meeting of Leaders.**

Nausada looked out of the balcony in Belatona, to see the sun rising over the city. It shone over the mountains, the bottom of the Spine, which could be seen in the south, painting the large city in an orange glow. The light glinted off the helmets of the few guards on the walls, flashing in Nausada's eyes as she looked out over the rooftops. Belatona was an impressive sight.

She shaded her eyes as she looked out towards Surda, past the main gate. She was meeting Orrin, and she was going to ask him about a few things that a few of her people in Surda had told her. More and more had come up after Orrin had arranged the meeting, and she intended to challenge him about each and every one of them as soon as he arrived. Despite the fact that rumours were rarely reliable, her sources were not rumours, and they had sworn to tell her nothing but the truth. She would not let Orrin wave away her doubts as easily as he had last time. Nausada wanted answers.

Horns blew in the south, and Nausada looked on as a thousand men on horseback rode towards the city gate, banners waving, dust rising from their hooves, and a single man at the head of the group, his back straight and a crown on his head as he rode towards the city. Their orange uniforms looked smart and clean as they rode purposefully across the plains.

As they neared the city, Orrin, for Orrin was the man at the head, called for the gates to be opened. With the creaking of gears, the gates began to swing open, and the men rode through into Belatona. As the gate began to close again, Nausada heard Orrin say, "Friends, what is the need to close the gate? For we are all friends here, and this is an age of peace." The men at the guardtowers stopped, and the gates were left open towards the plains, like the wide arms of friendship extending to Surda. Nausada turned and headed back inside her rooms, to get ready for the meeting. She hadn't expected Orrin to arrive so early.

She changed her clothes, quickly putting on a dress of a dark red colour, that trailed behind her as she walked, but didn't catch in her heels unless she walked backwards. She wore her dark shoes, high heeled, she put on a necklace that had been a gift from the fabled craftsmen of Belatona when she became queen, with a bright yellow gemstone on it, made of gold, and of course she wore her Crown, the symbol of all her power. She strode out of the room, heading for the hall. Her ten personal guards, the Nighthawks, their numbers increased after her ascension to Queen, followed her as she walked swiftly down the brightly lit corridor, their weapons ready, their minds searching and their eyes alert, as always, in case of any attack. They were all spellcasters, and they had sworn to do whatever it took to save the Queen, even at the cost of their lives. They did not neglect their duty.

She entered the hall, which was large, but quite plain, no pillars and a simple stone floor, and sat down on the Throne, which was raised above the level of the rest of the hall, and the Nighthawks lined up on either side of the Throne. A second later, the large doors at the other end opened, and she saw King Orrin walk in, an orange cloak around his shoulders, almost stretching down to the floor, a mail vest over his torso, which Nausada found strange, and his own Crown on his head. He was followed by fifty soldiers, his own royal guard, Nausada supposed, although it did seem a little extravagant.

_Why so many soldiers? And, in fact, where are the other men he brought with him?_ She looked through the doors again, seeing the remaining troops standing in the courtyard, and then dividing themselves up, heading for the sides of the courtyard. Nausada shrugged off her doubts._ He's probably just trying to show that Surda is growing strong again, to prove himself. But still, I should be more careful. Accusing him directly might not be such a good idea... No, I shall stick to my plan. He has sworn himself to me as his high queen, he shall not do anything._

Reassuring herself mentally, Nausada stood up and bowed, not deeply, but a respectable amount nonetheless. Orrin acknowledged her with a slight nod of the head. It was a disrespectful thing to do, especially to your superior, and especially when she had just bowed as much as Nausada had. Something wasn't right. Orrin was never usually that impolite. Nobody was that impolite! Nausada sat down again, wondering at his behaviour.

"Greetings, King Orrin," she began, formally, but with a hint of coldness in her voice. Orrin replied almost lazily.

"Greetings, Queen Nausada." His tone of voice was bored, almost as if he didn't care at all, and it made Nausada want to slap him.

She spoke, anger in her voice. "That is High Queen Nausada to you, Orrin. Now, would you care to take that expression off your face, and tell me why I am hearing of dragons roaring in pain in Fenister before Taiven even got there, Dragons roaring in pain in Fenister after Taiven got there, you working with a former Imperial magician and his body being discovered in the sewers soon after? And do not say 'rumours' this time, for I know this to be true. Answer me!" She almost shouted the last words, rising out of her throne, walking down the steps towards Orrin. The Nighthawks followed, in case things got violent. As Nausada neared Orrin, she saw him look back at a man, nodding at him. The man closed his eyes, and Nausada could see that he was concentrating a lot. The Nighthawks looked at him suspiciously, and then the man returned Orrin's stare and nodded in reply.

Nausada looked at Orrin, wondering what he thought he was doing. "Answer me!" She said, her tone dark and threatening. Orrin looked at her stonily, staying silent. Suddenly Nausada heard screams of pain and confusion, coming from outside. She looked up, out of the doors, as a man wearing the uniform of Nausada's soldiers stumbled into view.

Half his left arm had been severed, and there was an arrow in his leg, but he looked up, saying, "Your Majesty! King Orrin's men are-" and that was a far as he got, before an arrow went in one side of his head and out the other. He collapsed in front of the doorway, lying in a pool of his own blood.

Nausada stared at the man in horror, then she turned her stare on Orrin. He grinned at her, and he swung his arm away from his side, his sword flashing at Nausada's head. She raised her arm to defend herself, and his look of triumph turned to one of bewilderment as the knife hidden in Nausada's sleeve blocked the blow. He swung the sword at her again, and she backtracked rapidly, towards the exit, as the Nighthawks charged at Orrin's men, who all simultaneously threw their spears. Nausada tripped, her heel catching the back of her dress, and she swore, cursing her bad luck to fall.

But it turned out to be good luck, as all the spears flew over her rather than through her. The Nighthawks stumbled, their wards blocking the spears but leaving them weakened as Orrin's best men charged. The Nighthawks held their ground, skilfully defending her, but the number of men threatened to overwhelm them as they backed away, soldiers trying to get around behind them in the big hall. A man fell, screaming in agony as a sword pierced his lungs. Several of Orrin's troops had fallen, but there were still many more than the Nighthawks and more were entering the hall all the time. Nausada looked on, stunned at what Orrin had done, as two more Nighthawks fell, leaving just seven to fight what now looked like almost a hundred soldiers. Nausada turned, unwilling to run, as one more was killed, and she realised that they were giving their lives to save hers.

_I shall have to honour their sacrifice, even if it means running,_ Nausada thought, as twenty men cut past the Nighthawks, now reduced to five. She drew two concealed daggers, the one in her sleeve, which now had a dent on it, as did her arm, and a secret one, concealed in the Crown, that was rumoured to have magical properties, left over from the reign of the Broddring Kingdom..

_I sure hope it does, because I'm in a right fix!_ Nausada ran, her high heeled shoes being terrible for running in, so she kicked them off, heading for the nearest exit from the castle, so that she could rally the soldiers there and through the rest of the city, and defeat Orrin once and for all. She could hear the men chasing her, their armour rattling behind her, but she was lighter and faster, and she began to take the lead. She had nearly reached the entrance to the castle when she cried out in shock.

Fifty or more men of Surda were guarding the door to the city, and they had seen her. The bodies of the guards littered the floor, staining the stones red. She desperately looked around for an escape route, and saw that the only way was up the stairs towards the battlements. She hesitated, looking around, seeing that soldiers were charging at her from both directions, and she dashed up the stairs, hearing them chase her up the spiralling steps.

_I can hold them for a bit here, if I take them by surprise, _she thought. The narrow, close, twisting nature of the stairs was perfect for her daggers, so she turned and knelt down, stabbing at a man who was coming up, catching him off guard, as he had not seen her around the bend in the staircase. She hit him, goring him in the eye with the knife from the crown.

The flesh around the wound seemed to burn up as she pulled the knife out, and the body fell down the stairs, crashing into another man. He yelled as the corpse fell on him, and he yelled again when he saw his wound. Nausada grinned to herself. _That should give them a shock!_ But the men advanced around the body, more cautious now, and Nausada continued her ascent.

She reached the top, only to stop in shock, seeing more of Orrin's men waving a flag, signalling to someone. Still more dead soldiers were lying on the floor. Nausada remained quiet and backed off, not letting them know she was there. Suddenly, she saw something that she had never expected.

A massive army of horsemen, followed by soldiers on foot, emerged from behind a large hill near the city gate and began to charge towards the still open gate. They wore orange armour.

The men who had been chasing her came up onto the battlements as well, yelling to the others to "come and help." She backed away, reaching the edge of the battlements. Knowing that there was no way out, knowing that she would rather kill herself than be killed or captured, she climbed onto the wall and jumped.

_This is the end,_ she thought, plummeting towards the busy street.

_And I'll never see Murtagh again..._


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: War.**

Nausada crashed into a roof.

It was unexpectedly soft, and then it collapsed, which was also unexpected, and she hit her head, hard. She realised that she had landed on one of the market stalls on the main street, and the strong poles holding it up had broken. She glanced around herself, confused, lying in the ruins of the stall. She saw the men looking down from the top of the castle, and she realised that she had to get away from there and out of Belatona before the horsemen entered the city.

Suddenly, a strong arm grabbed her from behind, and she cried out in shock, slashing out blindly with the dagger. The arm let go and grabbed her wrist, blocking the knife, and Nausada heard a familiar voice.

"Your Majesty, if you stop trying to stab me, I may feel more inclined to get you up. Now, trying to stab me in the heart with that knife, while it may burn whatever it stabs, is not a good idea, as I'm helping you. That would be the sort of thing a fool would do. Also, if you hurt me with that, I might use a special little dagger of my own." Nausada looked up, to see a woman with a sunset coloured dagger, curly brown hair and a grin on her face.

"You!" Nausada exclaimed, shocked. A large cat padded around the woman's legs as she replied.

"Oh, please, call me Angela. It is my name, you know." Angela grinned and sheathed her dagger, her eyes flashing around as she looked around the group of people who had gathered round. "Well? Get out of our way!" she said, pulling Nausada up again, and the crowd parted as Angela walked Nausada through, Solembum following behind.

"We have to get out of the city, we're under attack from Orrin's troops. They're probably inside by now," Nausada said, stumbling along after her. Nausada's head was aching from where she had landed on it, after the stall had collapsed, and she was taking a while to regain her balance. Angela turned a corner, hurrying towards the walls.

"I know, and I was hoping to do what I came here for before all this started again, but I suppose it can't be helped. Ah well, maybe after another five years of searching, right?" Angela veered away from the sounds of screaming coming from up ahead. The soldiers had entered the city. Angela passed Solembum, who was now in his human form, his black dagger and put her hand on the hilt of a sword that was on her belt.

"And what are you here for? What were you searching for?" Nausada asked, walking faster to avoid falling behind as Angela increased her speed. More and more people were beginning to realise that something was wrong, and they began to move in the direction of the keep. Angela, Solembum and Nausada were the only ones heading towards the walls.

"A rather interesting crystal that was tricked off me by a man who owns a donkey with a bald patch shaped like a rooster's head. I tracked him down, I was about to get him, and then you nearly landed on my head and he bolted." She glanced back at Nausada, smiling. "Thank you so much, Nausada. In one second, you turned five years of hard work into so many attempts at killing a Nidhwal with a twig, that is, when you don't know that all you need to do is stick a splinter into a certain point on its neck, severing it's nerves and making it lose all control of its tail, sink into the sea and drown. It's actually quite easy, if you can swim like a fish, breathe underwater, and you avoid the teeth and tail lashing out at you all the time." Nausada continued following, bewildered, as the herbalist flashed her another grin and continued. Angela never made any sense. She didn't even know what a Nidhwal _was._

They reached a corner leading to the outer wall, and Nausada glanced back at where they had come from, seeing that all the people had left the area, and then she saw several hundred horsemen thunder past, heading for the keep and the people of the city. As they rode past, five horsemen detached themselves from the rest, turning to face the three people in the road. They waved their swords and charged, one heading for Solembum, and two each for Angela and Nausada, who stood still, waiting for the assault. Solembum leapt forwards, in his human form but in a manner very like a cat, and landed on the head of the charging horse. The man yelled, swinging his sword at the werecat, but Solembum deflected it down and the man recoiled, trying not to kill his horse, but falling off in the process. Solembum jumped down and stabbed him in the back.

One of the men charging at Nausada just swung his sword down at her head, his shield to the side. She blocked the blow with her dagger, denting it even further, and stepped forward, stabbing into the man's stomach with the dagger from the crown. The man screamed in pain as his stomach practically dissolved, and Nausada whirled around, blocking another blow, whereupon the dagger, already dented, snapped. Nausada gasped as the man's sword continued towards her neck, and the man gasped as a black dagger emerged from his neck. He fell, and Nausada looked at Angela.

One of the soldiers she had been facing had a strange dart coming out of his neck, and the other was on foot. He sliced at the witch, but she drew a sword and held it still and steady. The other blade split in two on contact, Angela snapped her arm forwards and let go, and the glimmering sword slammed straight into the man's chest plate and through the whole of his chest, only stopping when the crossguard slammed into what remained of the man's torso. Seeing that Nausada had broken a dagger, she reached into her clothing and pulled out the sunset-coloured dagger again. She threw it to Nausada, who caught it.

"Keep it safe, it's the most deadly dagger in the world." With that cryptic and puzzling statement, for Nausada could see nothing special about the dagger, Angela grabbed and mounted one of the horses and the cloak of one of the soldiers, signalling Nausada to do the same. She gave one last word of advice.

"Don't use it near your friends, or you may get a different result to the one you hope for. And give it back when we're out of here. I wouldn't want to lose another thing I worked hard and long for because of you." She spurred on the horse, Nausada and a rather large cat following.

_How will we get out, even disguised? They're bound to be alert. I suppose we'll just have to hope the gate is open and ride as fast as possible..._

Nausada and Angela rounded a corner slowly, trying to see as much as they could before being seen. Over a thousand men were entering the city, spreading out in all directions. Nausada and Angela exchanged a glance. The men were foot soldiers, so as "cavalry" they were of higher rank.

Or at least they were higher _up. _That had to count for something.

They trotted forwards, and the lines of infantry parted as the horses advanced. Solembum had jumped up behind Angela and hidden under her cloak. It looked strange, but no-one challenged her. They rode towards the gate, looking around at the cavalry that had been standing next to the gate all that time. They were nearing the end of that group of men, but suddenly, there was a shout behind them.

"Hey where are you two going? Who are you?" A cavalryman, who looked like a captain, was looking at them suspiciously.

"Make way, make way!" Nausada said to the men around them, spurring the horse forwards. She was nearly at the gate. Most of them separated, but one grabbed her cloak, pulling her hood down, revealing her crown, which, she realised, must have looked pretty strange under the hood.

The man who had grabbed the cloak yelled in shock as he saw the Crown. "It's the bleeding Queen! Get her!" She swore and kicked the horse, stabbing the man in the chin with the sunset dagger just for revenge.

He exploded, blasting the last line of men to the ground. The horse stumbled, but it's back had been to the man when he blew up, and it stumbled but didn't fall. Angela had already broken free of the soldiers and was galloping out of the gate, veering towards Leona Lake, towards Dras'Leona, the nearest friendly town. Nausada followed, heading north. She looked back to see the foot soldiers trying to chase them, getting in the way of the cavalry, who were also chasing. They had pulled out a lead by the time many of the horsemen had extricated themselves from the fray, and Nausada grinned as she saw the confusion of the Surdans. However, her grin turned to a look of despair and sadness as she saw what was going on at the castle, and in fact all around the city.

The flags of her Empire were coming down, and they were being replaced by a different flag, one that was already flying on the tallest tower of the Keep.

The flag of the monarchy of Surda.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: The Chase.**

A hundred soldiers were following Nausada and Angela. They were several miles away, but they appeared to be gaining. More soldiers had been ahead of them, riding faster and harder, but when they got near enough, Angela said something, holding a dagger, and every single one of them fell, stabbed through the neck. Nausada had asked how it was possible, but Angela had garbled some nonsense about time and energy that Nausada totally failed to comprehend. It had worn her out though, so she couldn't scry their friends or Dras'Leona for help, as she hadn't enough energy. They were still riding hard, but night was drawing in, and they would have to stop soon, risking the soldiers catching up, or continue through the night, and risk falling off the cliff that ringed the lake at that point. They would have to make one choice or the other.

_If they stop, we ride on for a bit longer, then camp. If they don't stop, we don't, and we hope we can hear it if they plummet off the cliff, and that we don't ourselves._ Nausada sighed, then urged the horse to go faster. It was not looking good.

Solembum and Angela were on the other horse, and Angela looked drained. Solembum, in comparison, looked as fresh as anything, glancing back at the men with a smile on his face, fingering both his own black dagger and the sunset dagger, which Nausada had given back to Angela. Angela had then had Solembum assemble a weapon that Nausada had only seen once before, in the hands of a dwarf priest. It was a Huthvir, and Angela had it in her hands as she rode, bent down as if she was on her last legs, rather than the horse. She had given Nausada the sword she had been wielding before, saying, "I prefer the Huthvir, when I have time to assemble it, and you will be more used to this anyway. Beware though, it can and will cut through anything with ease." Nausada had tried it on a tree as they rode past, and the tree had fallen and blocked the path, which had caused the horsemen some trouble. Nausada smiled as she remembered it.

_If we can do something like that again, or even trick them off the path, then we may have a chance. In fact, tricking them off the path will be most effective, but it would be best done at night, and then we run a risk ourselves. We could all get lost except Solembum, as cats can see in the dark... _Suddenly, the solution hit her. She gasped, wondering if it could be done. She ran through possible scenarios in her head, and it seemed to her that it had very little chance of going wrong. She angled the horse closer to Angela and Solembum's, to ask them if they agreed that it would work.

Angela seemed doubtful. "It is a risk, and one that we should only take if it becomes apparent that they are going to ride through the night and overtake us. If not, we should not." Solembum seemed a little more enthusiastic.

_If it works, we shall reach safety. If it doesn't, we shall not. So we should try it_. He had said, and that was all he would say on the matter.

"So, we should try, then?" Nausada had asked, hoping that they would go along with it.

They both nodded.

Mareck was tired. It was night, he was at the back of the group, so stones and dirt kept getting in his eyes, and they had been riding since the morning, trying to catch and kill the two fugitives, including the queen. It was now midnight, the commander having made the decision to pursue for as long as possible. The path was mostly straight, but it was hard to navigate in the dark, and it was slowing them down, as the captain kept having to change the course.

_This is pointless. They probably snuck off into the wilderness and gave us the slip a long time ago._

Suddenly a cry of "Look!" went up, and the captain yelled an order.

"Left! Left! You idiots, they're off to the left! Go left!" Sure enough, there were two torches, one after the other, travelling slowly in the same direction as them, about a quarter of a mile away to the left. The captain charged, the rest of the company following , and Mareck trailing behind. The torches seemed to stay still for a bit, then move off, away from the horsemen and seeming to go behind a rise. The men continued charging.

They were very near by then, and the captain crested the rise and slowed down, as if looking around. The next line of people came up behind him, and the next charged into the back of them, forcing them over the rise, and the effect continued until the last line, minus Mareck, who was further behind, charged over at full speed, hearing cries from their companions. Mareck slowed as he heard more cries.

_There shouldn't be that many people screaming whilst fighting three! I'll go slower... _So, he slowed the horse to a trot, and stopped it entirely when he heard more horses screaming, and sounds of splashing.

_They fell over the cliff! But how did the enemies avoid it_? He gasped as he saw a short boy with long, shaggy hair and two torches in his hair emerge from a cave in the face of the cliff. The boy grinned, showing pointed teeth, and he leapt at Mareck, taking him by surprise and stabbing him under the chin with a dagger as black as midnight. Mareck choked, then fell forwards in the saddle as the boy slapped the horse's hindquarters. The animal reared and charged forwards, joining the others in their watery grave. Many people had been unable to reach the surface due to all the horses and people, many had had horses land on them, many horses had landed on each other, and many had been crushed by the animals and men around them. Over half the force was killed, and three people raced on towards safety, leaving almost seventy dead soldiers decaying in the lake.

"I have to say, Nausada, your plan worked." Angela said, as they rode on that morning. Dras'Leona had come into sight that morning, and they had ridden on, as fast as possible. The horses had had little rest since the trick last night, and the best they could do was a trot, but Nausada didn't care if it killed them. She had to get to Dras'Leona to prepare it for the assault and warn Eragon, Arya, Orik, Jormundur, Garzhvog and Roran about the threat.

"Aye, that it did. Although it would never have worked without Solembum." The werecat appeared pleased at that. Angela had had little sleep, and had been unable to recover enough strength to scry, as they had brought no provisions. They would reach the city that day, though, so Nausada could contact her spellcasters and do what she needed. She would not fail so easily again.

"Angela..." Nausada hesitated. "Why do you think Orrin is doing this?" Angela laughed at her. Nausada tilted her head, puzzled.

"Nausada, you are the Queen, you are the politician, you are the one who knows him. I am a herbalist. I should be asking you that question!" She leant back in the saddle, seemingly tired from laughing. Nausada looked on in concern as Solembum rubbed his fur against her neck. It seemed to brighten her mood, but she still looked weary.

_We need to get to Dras'Leona. Every second means we will be a bit more prepared for when the attack comes, as surely it soon must. Orrin is probably coming right now._

Upon a sudden thought, Nausada turned in the saddle, scanning the horizon. Belatona was out of sight, but she could see several ships with orange sails coming up Leona lake, and as she looked closer, she thought she could see a dark mass on land, indistinct and far away, but it was there nonetheless.

It was a vast army.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: Too Far…**

Eragon and Arya sat together on the roof of Du Skulblaka Breoal. Saphira and Firnen were lying down behind them, next to each other. Both couples liked the view, but they ignored the stunning vista spread around them, which would surely have captivated almost anyone else, choosing instead to look at that which was much dearer to all of them: each other. They were in love, and that was all that mattered to each and every one of them.

Arya was holding Eragon's shoulder with one hand, holding his with the other and resting her head on his other shoulder. His hand was around her waist, and they were sitting in silence, just looking at each other, in love and cherishing it.

Firnen was resting his head next to Saphira's. Their large bodies rubbed against each other, each of their wings were partly over the other's body, and their tails wound around each other. They were as close to each other as they could be, relishing the contact.

Firnen's training was nearly complete, and they all wanted to spend as much time together as possible before Arya and Firnen returned to Du Weldenvarden, especially Eragon and Arya, as while Saphira and Firnen had been mates again ever since they came, it was only two weeks since Arya and Eragon had become mates, and, while they had spent every moment of those two weeks together, it was still a lot less time than their Dragons had been together, and they dreaded parting after such a short amount of time. Arya and Firnen would have to go after three weeks, and Eragon and Arya had wordlessly agreed to be as close as possible throughout the time they had left. It was good to be together, but Eragon realised that it was a bittersweet feeling, tempered by the fact that the lovers would be separated so soon.

_I love you, Arya._ The couple kissed, as their Dragons, green and blue, soared over them towards the place where they would train that day. Their scales glimmered in the sunlight, showering the tower and their Riders in beautiful flecks of light. It was a stunning sight.

_I love you too, Eragon,_ Arya said as they separated, and she leaned forward and they kissed again, before turning as one and walking back down the stairs leading to their quarters, intending to eat and pass the time together, sure that nothing would require their immediate attention for at least a week or so, so they could do whatever they wanted, and no-one would know, or care, apart from their Dragons. They welcomed the solitude, glad of the privacy it provided.

Eragon and Arya walked into the room, their arms around each other, then stopped, surprised.

Nausada was in the mirror, waiting, a frown on her face. She was wearing a surprisingly unclean looking red dress and her Crown, which appeared to be missing a spike, until Eragon saw the jewel-encrusted dagger in her hand. Upon closer inspection, the dress appeared to have bloodstains on it, and it was covered in dust. She saw them, raised an eyebrow at how close they were to each other, and then started to speak.

"Eragon, you have to come back to Alagaesia. You too, Arya. I have been attacked, and Belatona taken." Eragon's mouth fell open in shock.

"What happened ? Is Orrin alright? Roran said he was meeting you there. Who attacked? What are they doing now?" He asked, amazed that someone had been able to invade Belatona, having not been seen by anyone in the Empire, when Belatona was practically in the middle of the land the humans used, and amazed that they had found out when the queen was going to be there and planned their attack accordingly, when surely it couldn't have been common knowledge.

"Orrin attacked, he is perfectly fine as far as I know, and he is heading for Dras-Leona, where I am now, with a vast army." Eragon glanced at Arya in shock. She seemed to be thinking hard, and then, she spoke.

"It makes sense that he would attack, after all that happened in the war. He argued with us all, it was only through threats that we managed to make him accept you as Queen, and he tried to kill Roran. The one thing I don't understand is how he expects to have a chance of winning when he has no Riders on his side..." She trailed off, and Eragon could tell that she was trying to remember something. Suddenly, her face turned from puzzlement to shock horror. "Taiven! She went to Surda! Do you think he's done something to her, to try to get her under his control?"

Nausada looked fearful. "The main reason for me to meet Orrin was because of reports from my men in Surda."

"You mean your spies?" Eragon cut in, grinning.

"If you want to call them that, then yes, my spies." Nausada looked irritated, but she continued. "They told me of a number of people, including themselves, hearing a dragon roaring in pain in Fenister, before Taiven was anywhere near, but I don't know what that would be, and another dragon doing the same after Taiven arrived. I suspect that he may have done something to Taiven and Miremel, and possibly to some wild dragon or something as well, before then. What he would get from that is what I don't know."

"He was probably trying to make Taiven or Miremel swear loyalty to him, but wild dragons cannot swear, because they cannot speak in languages, only feelings, smells, sounds, and images. Unless he found a dragon bonded to a Rider it would be pointless, and we know where all the Rider dragons are... Murtagh and Thorn! They could be anywhere... but they wouldn't go to Surda, and they know the true name of the ancient language, so any attempt to bind them would be useless. We'd better scry them, and Taiven, just to see what's going on, and to ask for their help. That is, if they would be willing to help us..." Eragon trailed off, lost in thought. Everything had been perfect for the last two weeks, but now, he was being thrust back into a confusing world of fighting, killing, and defending that he had hoped he would never be forced into again.

_Eragon? What are you thinking about war for?_

_Saphira, Orrin has attacked Nausada's Empire. We shall have to travel back to Alagaesia and fight, and damn that stupid prophecy! I can return whenever I want! I make my own decisions, I won't let knucklebones and their symbols tell me what to do! _Eragon could sense that Saphira was proud of what he had said as she replied.

_Well said, Eragon. So, it is time to fight again... I wish it were not so, but it has happened, Eragon, and there is nothing we can do about it now. Do not regret what you will do, for you cannot change your duty._ Saphira's words were wise, but Eragon was still uneasy.

_Why couldn't it just stay the same? Why couldn't this peace last?_ Eragon thought, dismayed at what had happened. Then, a calm and beautiful voice filled his mind.

_Eragon, we Riders are the keepers of the peace, but the peace cannot last forever. Remember that. And when the peace does stop, be it five years after a war or five hundred, we have to fight, to restore that peace. It is our duty, and therein lies our honour as Riders. We do what we have to, not what we want to do, or what is easy. We cannot avoid our fate. _Arya's words comforted Eragon, making him remember that he could not back down from his duty, and his duty would not change.

_Thank you, Arya._ Eragon smiled at her, and she smiled back, then they turned back to Nausada, who was looking puzzled.

"What was going on just then, Eragon? The both of you were just staring off into space, then you just grinned at each other for no apparent reason." Eragon glanced at Arya, and then spoke to Nausada.

"I was talking to Saphira, and then Arya spoke to me in the same way. But, go on, what were you saying?"

Nausada tilted her head, still looking at them, and then she shrugged. "I was saying that Murtagh would almost definitely be willing to help me, and it is likely that he would be willing to help you, when I realised that the two of you just weren't concentrating."

"And why would he be more likely to want to help you then to help us?" Eragon grinned, and he thought Nausada seemed a bit embarrassed. "An affair of the heart?" He guessed, but Nausada just waved away the comment.

"Never mind, we have more important things to discuss." Eragon grinned, again.

"Changing the subject, Nausada? Very well, but what happened to you?"

He and Arya listened as Nausada told them what had happened in, and out of Belatona. Several times they made observations to each other mentally, commenting that way so as not to be overheard, although it had its disadvantages, such as Eragon nearly laughing out loud when Arya had said, _That explains why there's a bit of someone's brain on her dress,_ when Nausada had told them about stabbing the man who exploded after, with the sunset dagger. Nausada looked at him strangely, then continued.

Finally, she concluded, saying, "So here I am in Dras-Leona, an army that can probably kill all of us in the city easily two days away, too far away from any other cities but Belatona for quick reinforcements. I have contacted Ilirea and told their troops to stay put for the moment. If they meet this army on an open plain, there is almost no chance. Better to stay put and defend. Gil'ead has started to mobilise their troops, and tomorrow they shall set off for Ilirea. It will be close, but if Orrin takes Dras-Leona, he will head for Ilirea, I am sure of it, and they may be able to get there before him. It is good that Jormundur and Stronghammer are both in Gil'ead, and that Roran's men have come from Carvahall with him, as it will make this much easier. Every sword counts, especially yours." She gestured at the two of them. "When can you arrive?"

They looked at each other, a quick mental conversation taking place. Then, Eragon turned to Nausada.

"Nine days to get to Ilirea is the very best we can hope for, but with the worst luck, it could be up to thirteen, depending on the wind." Nausada cursed.

"This is bad! The men at Gil'ead will take nine or ten days to get to Ilirea, you the same. Orrin is one and a half days from Dras-Leona, which is five or six days from Ilirea. Unless we can halt him here, it doesn't look good. And with the size of his army, we have very little chance, if any." Eragon raised his eyebrows.

"Your Majesty, if it is so unlikely for the city to survive, shouldn't you leave when you still can?" She glared at him.

"That would be running, again. I shall not run. I shall stand my ground, and I shall fight as hard as I can." Nausada appeared determined, so Eragon decided not to ask again.

"We shall contact the elves, but not the young Riders yet, I would not have them thrust into war knowing few of the joys of being a Rider." Eragon shuddered inwardly. "I know what it's like..." he trailed off, remembering the despair and hopelessness he had felt at the series of battles he was forced to face, and the thousands of men he was forced to kill. "They shouldn't have to go through it when still so young."

Arya nodded, wisdom and sorrow on her face. "Killing at an age like theirs is a terrible thing. If you do not calm yourself and find a way to find peace within yourself, the feeling can tear you apart." Eragon put an arm around her comfortingly, and she smiled and leant on him, causing Nausada to raise an eyebrow.

"We shall leave after contacting the elves, Your Majesty. Goodbye." Nausada nodded and the spell was ended. Eragon and Arya looked at each other, sadness in their eyes. War had come again, but they were too far away to do anything. They were too far...


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: With the Elves.**

Dusan and Laenar flew above the forest, to pass the time in the cool air that rose from the forest. The sun was out, Laenar's grey scales glistened, and Dusan was with the two people he loved the most.

Along with Laenar, Dusan's sister, Alanna, had come along as well. She was quick-witted and funny, always the first to make a joke, and she got along very well with both Dusan and Laenar. She had always been inclined to make poetry, so Dusan was not surprised when she started softly singing.

_Unin du vindr,_

_Varda du laufsbladr,_

_Ilian unin iet hjarta,_

_Un unin iet fricaeya._

_Ilian sem ach neiat blothr,_

_Kodtho, unin du Vindr._

_In the air,_

_Over the leaves,_

_Happiness in my heart,_

_And in my friends._

_Happiness that does not stop,_

_Caught, in the air._

"How do you think of poems like that, Alanna? I always wondered how you did it, and they all seem brilliant." Dusan asked, voicing a question that he had been thinking about for a long time.

She looked at him, seeing how puzzled he was, and laughed a little. "Eka haur ilian."

I have happiness.

Dusan shrugged, puzzled. "I have happiness too, but I could never think of something like that."

She smiled at him. "I open my mind, and channel my happiness into words that express it. You should try it, it is good to express yourself once in a while, and if you find it so challenging, then it will only give you a greater sense of achievement when you manage it." Dusan smiled back at her.

"Thank you. I will try it, sometime." He began thinking about something that he could base a poem on. He decided on Laenar, and began to mentally compose one, thinking hard.

_Little one, touching though your thoughts are, we should probably return now, as the sun has begun to sink, and we are quite a way from Ellesmera by now. _Laenar said, gently, and Dusan glanced around, looking for the taller trees and seeing that they were quite a way behind.

Thank you, Laenar. How long do you think we will take to get there? Dusan asked, concerned about flying and landing at night. Laenar's soft voice replied moments later, a hint of worry in her voice as she turned, flying towards Ellesmera.

_If I fly fast, we might make it back before sunset. We are quite a way from the city. Laenar increased her pace. When are you meant to be back, Alanna? _The misty Dragon inquired.

Alanna replied, amusement in her voice. _I can return whenever I want, just as Dusan can. It is only fair. We are the same age, should not we have the same rights?_

_But I and Laenar have to be back before dark,_ said Dusan, puzzled.

_No, you imposed that limit upon yourself, because of the dangers of landing in the forest at night, despite the fact that by simply saying 'Garjzla,' you could light up wherever you wanted._ Dusan was surprised that he hadn't realised that himself. _How embarrassing, you, the Rider, with the magic powers, the knowledge unknown to most, and the sword that shall never break, didn't realise something that your sister, an ordinary elf, thought of straight away!_ She laughed, and Dusan joined in, amazed at how silly he'd been. Their laughter rang through the clear air, and Laenar joined in, the sounds blending together in a strange mixture that none of them had heard anything like before, and they laughed even more at the sound they had created, as Laenar continued flying hard and fast towards the elven capital.

Laenar landed in a clearing in the Tialdari Hall, where Alanna jumped off. She said farewell, then headed off towards her home. Dusan dismounted, walking through the Hall and admiring the exquisite detail of the archways and the flower beds. Laenar couldn't fit through most arches, so she went around the hall, on the ground, as the sun had set.

Through the arches as he walked through the hall, Dusan could see the elves doing as they wanted. They had no jobs, so no-one did anything that they didn't want to do, they just relaxed and practiced their hobbies, whatever they might be. Suddenly, Dusan caught the sound of two voices that he had not expected to hear.

_When did they arrive? Why didn't we see them?_ Dusan wondered, as he walked towards the sounds. He walked through a few archways, peered through the next, and then his questions were answered.

Eragon and Arya were in a mirror, talking to Dathedr and Blohdgarm. He had heard their voices, but they were just scrying, not visiting. He listened to what they were saying.

"...You, Arya, should never have left. We need you here. You are the queen, and the decisions in such a situation are yours. This is a war"-Dusan gasped, but Dathedr didn't seem to notice-"and we need you to be where things are happening and choices are being made. You made the wrong decision to go, and it was a mistake." Dathedr concluded angrily. Arya bowed her head, but Eragon shook his.

"No, Dathedr, she made the choice that was right at the time. No queen would leave in war, but in peacetime, when it is necessary for her to go, she has every right to do what she wants. It was not a mistake. It was the right thing to do at the time, and it was her choice to make. There is nothing we can do to change what has happened, but we can try to put it right." Arya smiled at him, and he smiled back. "Now that Orrin has attacked, as he surely would have done eventually, we will have to fly to reinforce Ilirea. You should probably try to as well, but it will take time for the elves to gather their forces..." he glanced at Arya, who continued.

"Aye, it shall take time to form a strong enough army, and I suspect it shall be the same for the Dwarves. Us two shall have to fly as fast as we can, and the rest is down to the humans. Try to gather the people, Dathedr, and do so as fast as you can. And please do not tell Dusan of this. He would fly to the defence of Ilirea, and though he would get there fast, and he would help, I would not risk such a new Rider. There is already Taiven, whom we cannot scry, and Murtagh, who is the same, in trouble, possibly both together. Another Rider, when there are still so few, is something we will not risk." Eragon nodded beside her.

_Taiven in trouble, the humans attacked by Orrin, Eragon and Arya flying to Ilirea as fast as possible... I have to do something! I refuse to just stay here. I shall fly and I shall fight_. Dusan decided, determined to do something useful.

"But cannot you bypass the wards against scrying, using... what you know?" Dathedr asked. He seemed worried, and angry.

"We should be able to, but..." Eragon trailed off, then said, "Something seems to have happened regarding the Word. Either Murtagh has made it immemorable, or he was forced to. Whatever happened, none of the four of us here remember it, and our biggest advantage is gone."

Dathedr frowned, narrowing his eyes. "The Lords and Ladies will not be happy with this. They were angry with you before, Arya Drotting, but now they will be furious. I would advise you to be cautious. They are not happy, and if you do something that they do not want again, like putting yourself at risk needlessly, they are almost certainly going to oppose you in the future. They were never this angry with your mother, and I think you should try to emulate her actions as queen, so as to placate their anger." But Arya shook her head.

"I am not the same person as my mother was. I have different opinions, different objectives, and different responsibilities." She held up her hand, showing the silvery Gewedy Insignia on her palm. "I am a different person to my mother, and I do things my own way. Whether that is the way of the council or not is something I couldn't care less about. I do what I have to do, because I have to do it. That is why I accepted the Yawe." She touched her shoulder, and Dathedr crossed his arms.

"I know that you are a different person, but I am only asking you to act like your mother would so that you do not lose your throne, not to become someone else." Arya spoke loudly, a hint of anger in her voice.

"I have more to care about than just my position, unlike my mother. I care about the future of Alagaesia on a whole, I care about the future of the Riders, I care about Firnen, and I care about Eragon. I would gladly give up my position to keep all of those safe, so my responsibilities are different, and so are my actions. I shall not stop doing what I think is right, no matter what it costs. Now, do what you must." She ended the spell.

Dathedr looked at Blohdgarm. "She is determined, but I would have to say too determined. She will lose the throne if she continues like this."

Blohdgarm shook his head, his long fur waving about. "Did you understand none of what she was saying, Dathedr? It is quite obvious that she is trying to show that she doesn't want the throne at all!" Dathedr raised his eyebrows at that.

"Are you sure, Blohdgarm? That is quite a statement." Blohdgarm laughed deep in his throat.

"It is true. Did you not hear her say 'I shall not stop doing what I think is right, no matter what it costs?' That sentence could only mean one thing." Dathedr replied, but Dusan was out of earshot by then. He had to get his things, tell Alanna that he was leaving, and set off for Ilirea. He had no time to waste. He had to get to the city. He showed the conversation to Laenar, and she agreed that they had to go as quickly as possible.

_For,_ she said, _we have sworn to protect the peace and to fight for it. We cannot go back on our vows now. _Dusan agreed, so after contacting Alanna, who told him to stay safe, and collecting Rakr and some provisions, they set off, heading for the human capital, two days fast journey away.

_Fly, Laenar, fly! The fate of the continent may depend on us! Fly!_


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: Dras-Leona.**

Zimar stood behind the King, as Orrin gazed out at Dras-Leona. They had travelled until they were just outside the city, leaving Belatona and starting to travel as soon as they had secured the city. Orrin had been confident that the horsemen who had chased after Nausada would manage to kill her easily, but when the soldiers had reported finding two large groups of dead soldiers and men still alive who spoke of "Lights that were not there leading us over a cliff," he had realised that somehow the queen and her companion had managed to evade almost a hundred and fifty soldiers and actually kill most of them as well, and he had taken his anger out on the two Riders and their dragons. Zimar had laughed hard as the whips cut into the riders' backs and the dragons' wings were slashed, and he wished he had not had to heal them, but they were necessary for the war, and the King was not to be disobeyed.

Zimar was not a nice person. He had been the most enthusiastic member of the Black Hand, and had infiltrated Orrin's forces. He had taken delight in killing, whether the Empire's soldiers in order to maintain his cover or the Varden's soldiers behind their backs. However, he had been found by one of Orrin's magicians after he had slipped alcohol into the king's drink, although that had not been noticed. He had pleaded-Zimar hated pleading-for Orrin to let him live, and Orrin had agreed to let him join his service and swear his loyalty in return for his life. Now, Zimar was his trusted servant, and he enjoyed his work, especially taunting the Riders. They thought they were so powerful, but there they were, in the cell, locked up like a couple of dogs, while he, the traitor to the Varden, walked around free. The irony, Zimar thought, was brilliant.

"Zimar, do you think we can break down the gates and take the city within a day?" Orrin asked, still staring at the city. "They are strong, but our battering ram is powerful, and the sooner we break in, the better." Zimar considered, and then shook his head.

"No, your Majesty, not without the Riders helping as well. The gates are strong, and so is the keep, and the soldiers are alert. You can see them lining the walls." Orrin nodded, and Zimar could see that he was looking at the men at the gate of the city.

"We shall use the Riders then. Time is of the essence, and the sooner we get in, the better. I do not want to lose the advantage of surprise when it comes to the Riders, but nor do I want to lose the advantage of numbers when we reach the capital. The longer we stay here, the more troops arrive at Ilirea, and the harder it will be to win the city. And while we have a chance of retaining the advantage of surprise if we attack fast enough and don't give them a chance to contact anyone, we have less and less chance of retaining the advantage in the number of men we have the longer this goes on. We must attack now, and fast. Fetch the Riders." Zimar bowed and hurried off to the place where Murtagh and Taiven were being held.

Murtagh and Thorn were in a cage, the sort that was used to hold wild animals, and Murtagh was under Thorn's wing, hiding from the world that just wanted to hurt him. They had been dragged from Belatona, in the cage, by two dozen horses, like they were some sort of freak show, or like they were slaves for sale. Not that anyone had seen them, of course. They had been hidden from view and commanded to be silent, in case someone guessed that there were Riders under Orrin's command. The same, it seemed, had happened to Taiven and Miremel. They were now a way from the main camp, their cages side by side, trying to mime what had happened to each other, as the command to be silent had not been lifted. It was not going well, and all they succeeded in doing was looking increasingly stupid as time went on.

"If you're done clowning around, O Riders, you are wanted by the King." came a scathing voice from the side. Both the Riders jumped and turned to look at the speaker. It was Zimar. Murtagh glared, and so did Taiven, while the Dragons curled up their faces in snarls that could never be rivalled by any human expression. Zimar just grinned at their rage.

"Well, Riders? Have you lost your tongues?" He asked, taunting them.

They remained silent. They had no other choice.

"Speak!"

Silence. Murtagh wanted to yell, to run at him, to hit him, to curse him, but the bars were in his way, and the bars of his orders were even stronger than the iron. He could do nothing.

Zimar was getting angry now, and they could all tell it. "Just speak!" he yelled, and when all of them remained quiet, he swore and said, "Fine, then, Riders, not dragons, follow me. Do not do anything stupid, or you shall be punished again. Get out." He unlocked Murtagh's door, then Taiven's, and the Riders stumbled out. He shut the doors again, and Taiven, who, it seemed, had been shaken a lot, especially by the torture, leant on his shoulder for support as they followed Zimar through the camp towards the side nearest the city, where Orrin was waiting. A lot of curious glances were cast as they went, but they ignored them and carried on.

Zimar took up a position behind the King, with the words, "They are here." Orrin nodded and Zimar gestured to the Riders to go forwards. Murtagh and Taiven walked slowly towards the King. He gestured ahead, through the darkness.

"Look, Riders. Look upon one of the largest and best defended cities in the Empire. Look upon the city in which the queen is, with all the guards she can find. Look upon the city which you will fight against, you will break into, and you will help me capture, all by sunset tomorrow." He turned to them, a smirk on his face and ambition in his eyes. "These are your orders. At sunrise, you shall cast spells of invisibility over yourselves, and the dragons, and you shall land above the gate. If you can, remain unnoticed, and sneak down into the guardrooms, one of you in each, and open the gates. Then, when the army have entered the city, you shall fly to the roof of the keep and kill any men you find up there. When the army has reached the keep and broken in, you shall head down and find where Nausada or any magicians are, then you shall kill her and any magicians you find. If you cannot go on without revealing yourselves, then make sure no-one gets away from you and contacts a magician. You should do anything to remain undetected, and you should keep anyone from scrying when they have detected you. You shall do this as fast as possible, and you shall return here immediately afterwards. Is that clear?" They nodded. "Oh, you can speak now."

"It is clear, master," Taiven said, her hate clear in her voice.

"Aye, we shall do as you say..." Murtagh agreed. While hate had been in Taiven's voice, the pure rage, anger and utter loathing expressed in Murtagh's reflected the way he felt about the world. He had been told to kill one he loved, and he was going to be forced to do it, and he hated every second of Orrin's existence, longing to end it, but knowing he couldn't. Also in his voice had been despair, for he knew that he could not help it. If it weren't for Thorn, he knew, he would have gone mad when he first learned of Orrin's power, and what he wanted to do with Murtagh, sinking into the melancholy feelings of depression that could only come with sadness of that magnitude. Since Taiven had arrived, her friendship had helped him too, but even then, he felt the possibility of madness at the edge of his mind. He would not give up hope, however, and he would retain his sanity for as long as he could, even if Nausada died, if only to see Orrin's head cut off and his skull smashed into pieces. Such was his hate for the King, and such had been his hate for Galbatorix. To him, they were one and the same.

_Nausada... Please leave Dras-Leona... You don't know how much it means to me but please... Just leave, and live..._ Murtagh knew that Thorn would normally comfort him, but Thorn was still not allowed to communicate. He also knew that Nausada would look upon it as a matter of honour not to leave the city. He tried to shake off his dark thoughts as Orrin continued, but it was nigh on impossible.

"Nausada shall die, her Empire shall become mine, and I shall become the sole leader of our race! Within a month, this shall be true, and I shall be all powerful!" Murtagh and Taiven exchanged worried and sad glances. Their fears, the things they dreaded, the things of their worst nightmares were going to happen tomorrow, and they hoped that the sun would never rise on that day. But they couldn't change the sun, and they couldn't change the speed of time, and they couldn't change the control Orrin had over them. They were backed into an impossible corner, with one way out.

Orrin's way.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: Dathedr and the Elven Lords.**

Dathedr looked around the table at the twenty-three elven Lords, twenty-four counting himself. None looked very happy. Lord Fiolr, the Lord of house Valtharos, seemed particularly displeased. There was an expression of anger upon his face, and his eyebrows were narrowed slightly.

Next to Fiolr sat Indarith, of House Haldthin. Indarith had spoken to both Dathedr and Islanzadi during the war, and she had expressed intense displeasure at forming an alliance with humans in the first place, after the fall, saying that they were weak and unreliable, and they would be less use against Galbatorix than a fish would be against a dragon, as she had put it. She had always been against Arya, scorning her connections with humans and her belief that they would help, especially Eragon when he first arrived in Ellesmera. She, like her son, Vanir, had considered him a cripple, weak, and inferior. When Vanir had had his arm broken by Eragon, she had heaped shame on him, despite his protests, and her anger only increased when he told her that Eragon was a worthy opponent, worthy of the title Rider. It had increased so much, in fact, that she refused to acknowledge Vanir as her son. He had become the ambassador, talking to the humans and dwarves regularly, as equals, and she had become even more furious.

Since then, she had been opposed to everything to do with humans, and she had been angry at Arya as well, for her continued friendship with them. Dathedr could tell that she would be opposed to sending help of any sort.

Dathedr had not yet told them about what was happening in the Empire, but they were still unhappy about the Queen's departure, and they had voiced their fears of weakness when he had told them of her decision They had wondered about the possible threats to the forest, such as shades or other abominations, and they had worried about having to sort out wars that could occur, between Dwarf clans, Urgal tribes, and every other faction or power under the sun. They had worried about arguments between each other and arguments with the leaders of other races. He could tell that they would be angry now, as their fears were going to be confirmed soon.

He gathered himself, ready to speak, but Bellaen of House Miolandra spoke up first. "Why have you summoned us here today, Dathedr? It is usually only the Queen who can call us like this, and she is abesnt."

"Bellaen, it is on the orders of the Queen that I talk to you today, and she left me in charge in her place. And this is what I have to talk to you about." He hesitated for a moment, then he spoke. "War has returned to Alagaesia." At that, the elves recoiled in shock and began talking rapidly. Dathedr held up his hand for silence, and eventually they stopped, looking at him for an explanation. Indarith looked especially angry, as did Fiolr.

"King Orrin has attacked Nausada's empire from the south, taking Belatona and trying to kill Nausada herself. Even now, he advances, heading for Dras-Leona. Arya and Eragon are both flying as fast as they can to Ilirea, and the Queen has ordered us to gather our strength and head there ourselves. How long do you think it will take to raise a big enough army?" The elves glanced around at each other, and Lord Fiolr stood up.

"Dathedr, that depends on the strength of the enemy. We should garner all the troops we can as fast as we can, from all the cities. Then, we stand the best chance. If, say, we order them to gather at Osilon, for that is our nearest city to Ilirea, we can gather a large enough force there in around two weeks. From there, it may be another week until we reach the capital. That is probably the best course of action. Do we all agree?" The elves, including Dathedr but excluding Indarith, who glared and shook her head, nodded slowly. It would not do to arrive too soon with too few elves to do any damage.

Fiolr continued, his tone changing from just serious to angry as well. "And why has the Queen forsaken us now, of all times? It is her duty to be here and to be ready, but she isn't, and for quite a lot of the time even when she was here, she was not actually in the city, choosing instead to soar in the air, ignoring her duty. And at the worst time possible, our Queen has left, and war has come again." Here he glanced around the table, looking into the eyes of the other lords. "Queen Arya, I say, is not behaving in the way that a Ruler of the elves should. I for one did not anticipate this when we chose her as our Monarch, and it is my opinion that as a result she should not be our Monarch any more. Times have changed, as have, I think, her priorities, so maybe we should change something as well. We need a ruler who does her duty as a ruler, and doesn't abandon us when we need her the most. My friends, we need a new Queen, or indeed King, and we need one now." Fiolr sat down then, concluding his speech, and the elves around the table glanced at each other, troubled, saying nothing. Dathedr sighed, and all eyes turned to him. He spoke, slowly and truthfully, voicing his thoughts

"While it may be true that the Queen is currently not preforming her duty in the exact way that she should, she is doing the best that she can, and she was doing the best that she could, but there wasn't much that she needed to do, and she did need to receive training. At the time, that seemed to her to be the right thing to do." He looked at each elf in turn, and each returned his gaze. "While it does seem that she is not doing as well as she could, choosing a new ruler would result in chaos. We need to be fast, and we need to be decisive, and if we are engaged in politics among ourselves we shall be no more useful to Nausada than the Dwarves were when they were choosing their King. We have to speak to Arya Drotting about this first, but we have to act before even that. There is no time to elect a new Ruler, and we are not even sure that we need one. Therefore, we should stay under Arya's rule at least until the war is over. And I see no reason to elect a new Monarch anyway. If Arya again does something that we advise against, or something important without consulting us, then it is indeed neglecting her duty. However, so far she has been doing what is right for us at the time she decided to do it, and that is no bad thing for a Queen to do." His voice was sharp as he finished, and the Lords and Ladies nodded. Bellaen spoke again.

"I agree with you wholeheartedly, Dathedr. We should keep our Queen; for now." Dathedr raised his eyebrows at the for now. He hadn't meant it to come across like that, but the Lords and Ladies were mumbling agreement at what Bellaen had said, so he let it go, not wanting to disagree with all of them. Like it or not, the meeting seemed to have become a game of politics, one that Dathedr wasn't sure he wanted to play right then.

"Then we should act as fast as we can. Contact the cities and the captains, and tell them to assemble their forces at Osilon. We must be quick, or our allies shall fall." The elves nodded at Dathedr's words, and began to stand and leave, to find scrying mirrors. Lord Fiolr made to go, but Dathedr called him back.

"What is it, Dathedr? As you said, I must be quick." Dathedr beckoned him over to the side, and led him through an arch into the beautiful gardens. They stood, admiring the large variety of carefully grown flowers, until Dathedr spoke.

"What do you have against Arya, Fiolr? You seemed the most frustrated of all the lords back there, and you were the one who spoke up about how Arya was behaving, when we had been discussing what to do about Orrin." Fiolr was silent for a few minutes, and then he spoke.

"The treasure of House Valtharos." Dathedr frowned, not understanding. Fiolr glanced at him, then spoke again, louder.

"The treasure of the Rider, Arva, that he passed to his sister, my mate, Nadura, as he lay dying, smote down by Kialandi, that she used to fight free of the Wyrdfell and return here, although she died afterwards, leaving it in my possession." Dathedr was still confused, until Fiolr continued with one word.

"Tamerlien." Then Dathedr understood, and he recalled the tale of the sword that Arya now wielded.

"But you gave it to her, yes? Why be so angry about something you yourself let happen?" The anger on Fiolr's face was astonishing as the Lord glared.

"I gave my permission to let her have it, yes, and to do with it what she would, but I much regret that sentence now, for the sword is not Tamerlien. It may still be the same thing, and it may have the same name, but it is no longer Tamerlien, sword of Arva. It is Tamerlien, sword of Arya, as it has been changed from what it originally was. The blade is thinner, it's colour lighter, and it's hilt shorter. It may be made of exactly the same things as before, but it is no longer the sword I treasured and kept safe within my home for a hundred years. It is a different weapon, without the same history of my house, and for that I blame her. She does not have to return it, no, she can keep it, for I want it not. I only want her off her throne." Dathedr was surprised at Fiolr's fury, as the elves rarely showed their emotions in that way, but he could tell that the elf was enraged. He tried to calm him down.

"Fiolr, she did what she had to. As a Rider, she needs a Rider sword, and as Tamerlien was available, and you had said to 'Do with it what she would,' then she had the possibility of getting herself something she needed badly. Do you think she should have acted differently?" Fiolr's eyes lit up in anger.

"She should have acted with honour and stated what she intended to do with the sword first, before asking me if she could." Dathedr raised his eyebrows before replying.

"But you would have said no, and she would be left without a sword. She knew that, so she said what she had to in order to get what she needed." Fiolr's eyes narrowed.

"Better no sword than no honour," he countered, and he strode off into the hall again, leaving Dathedr standing in the gardens.

_Well, it looks like Arya has made both a few mistakes and an enemy, an enemy that maybe I have made as well. Fiolr isn't happy._


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: Attack.**

Taiven was casting the spell of invisibility over herself and Miremel. It was complex, but she had learnt it recently. It was one of the last things she had been taught, and she remembered it well, so she made no mistakes as she chanted the words.

Murtagh was having a bit more trouble. It was five years since he had learnt it, under Galbatorix, and he couldn't seem to remember it. Neither could Thorn, as the red dragon was also thinking hard, but Murtagh made no progress.

Taiven completed the enchantment, feeling the drain on her energy from the spell, and looking down at herself. It was strange to see nothing where she knew she was, but even stranger was looking to where she could sense Miremel and seeing nothing. It was rather disconcerting.

She walked over to Murtagh, who was still trying the spell. She listened to his last attempt, then she spoke. "The next part is-"

"What! What's... Oh, Taiven, it's you. I didn't notice you'd done the spell. What do you want?" Murtagh had jumped in shock at hearing her voice come out of the air. Taiven laughed at his reaction.

"Well, I was going to help with the spell, as you appeared to be having some trouble. This is how it goes..." She coached him through the spell, explaining as she went along. He nodded, asking a few questions, and then, he spoke the words, and he and Thorn vanished, although there were still disturbances when they moved, just as with Taiven and Miremel.

Murtagh contacted her mentally, so that they would be able to tell where they were in the first attack, but in the second, they would have to shield their minds in case of magicians, so they would have to stay within touching distance of each other. It would be an awkward arrangement, but a necessary one, and one that they would have to work with.

They walked, still invisible, towards Orrin. His tent was at the back of the camp, as far away from the fighting as he could get. The magician, Zimar, was getting his orders as they came up.

"I want you to lead the fighting through the streets on foot. Do whatever you must, but make sure the troops advance as quickly as they can, do not get delayed, just lead your men up to the gate of the keep as quickly as possible, with one or two of the smaller battering rams; I had a thought, and I was right; the large battering ram won't fit down the streets. Go as fast as you can, but be thorough, just like in Belatona. The men shall search every house on every street, and eliminate any resistance, from one street to the next, but once again, our first assault shall concentrate on reaching the keep. The back-up shall follow, with the rearguard still at the gate, keeping any from escaping, as the first group storm the keep and the second search the streets." Zimar nodded to the King in acknowledgement. Orrin was wearing comfortable-looking orange robes, evidently not designed for fighting, and his crown, the same. It was evident that he wasn't planning on going anywhere near the city.

In contrast, Zimar wore battle gear. He had a rather thin mail vest, probably for lightness, but he had greaves and bracers on his legs and arms. He had a sword at each of his hips, knives in his belt, and he wore no helm. He strode off to the head of the army, his hands on his swords and a wicked grin on his face.

_Let's give Orrin a surprise! There's nothing he said against it, and if we're lucky, he might just fall and break his neck in shock!_ Taiven said, jokingly. Murtagh agreed, and they walked round behind the King, stepping quietly, and then they both leant forwards.

"Master." The one word scared Orrin out of his wits. They had both spoken at once, in his ears, and he was shocked! He glanced around wildly, until realising who it was. Taiven and Murtagh were both laughing at him mentally, his reaction was extremely funny to watch, and Taiven only just silenced a laugh.

"You are not to surprise me again, Riders. Do you understand?" Orrin was glaring into the thin air ahead of him, convinced that they were there. The sight of the King, so powerful, so serious, and so angrily staring at nothing, almost made Taiven laugh again.

"Master, we are here." Murtagh said, and the King whirled around.

"Good. Now, when the army yells and begins to charge, you shall land on the gate and do what I ordered yesterday. Do you understand?" They nodded, then realised that he couldn't see them.

"Yes." Murtagh said, and Taiven could feel the hate running through his mind.

"Then go to your Dragons and take flight. We attack soon, be prepared. As a matter of fact, stay here..." Orrin turned and headed into his tent. He came out half a minute later with Deloi and a red sword named Zar'roc. They were both in their sheaths. "Keep them, and do not use them to harm me or anyone under my control." They nodded and Taiven grabbed Deloi, sticking it through her belt. The sword turned invisible as she did so. She and Murtagh had been given rough leather armour, so it wouldn't rattle and give them away, though it wasn't so tough. They turned round, walking away.

When she reached Miremel, Taiven found herself wondering how to climb something invisible. She felt where Miremel's consciousness was, but it didn't help her eyesight one bit. Eventually, Miremel guessed where she was, and grabbed her by the armour, reaching round and putting Taiven on her back, and nearly spearing her on a spike in the process. Taiven could feel it behind her.

_Hey, watch it! You nearly killed me!_ Taiven sent an image of a spike to Miremel, who snorted apologetically.

_Sorry, little one. Look on the bright side though, I didn't! And you're on now, so we should fly._ Miremel replied, a bit of guilt in her voice. Taiven hugged her neck.

_It's fine, Miremel. Don't worry about it._ Gratitude flowed off Miremel as she began to fly, Thorn doing the same to her left. They flew over the army, staying in contact all the time, so as not to crash. As they hovered, waiting, they heard a yell from Zimar.

"CHARGE!" The army leapt forwards, but the Dragons were quicker. Heading for the gate, loathing what they were going to do, Thorn and Miremel charged.

Thorn reached the walls first, and Taiven could sense that Murtagh had jumped off onto one of the guardtowers, two towers on either side of the gate, with a dozen men on each. Thorn remained, hovering, and Miremel did the same above the other tower. Taiven jumped down, landing silently behind the men. She snuck around them, quietly closing the door to the tower as they fired arrows at the Surdans. She bolted the door, them said "Huldir!"

Hold.

She felt a drain on her energy for a second, in addition from the one from the invisibility spell, and then it stopped and she glanced around. She was in a room that housed a couple of mechanisms that seemed like they were meant to open the gate. She went to a large wheel set in the wall and twisted it. It was hard, but she heard the gate creak. She was opening the door for the enemies of peace to enter a city held by the bringers of peace. It was wrong, everything was wrong, but there was nothing she could do.

She twisted the wheel until it would twist no more, and she heard the men trying to get in. She was trapped in the room. She glanced around wildly, but the only other possible way out was an arrow slit.

She walked over to it. It was very small, but she thought she could get out of it.

_If not, I could break it and make it bigger, but I want to conserve my strength. She _stuck out an arm, then the other, then she tried and failed to stick her head through. She sighed, withdrew her arms, and cried, "Jierda!" The drain on her strength was large, but she reached out of the hole she had made. She could feel the wind coming from Miremel's wings, and that the dragon was trying to reach her, and she reached out further, lost her balance and fell, snatching at the air.

Her hand felt an invisible claw, and she grabbed on. Another set of invisible claws grabbed her, and she felt herself being lifted up, then swung round and put on the back of a Dragon.

But she didn't understand. Surely she had fallen further than Miremel could reach? She spoke to her Dragon. _Miremel, how did you manage to reach me?_

_I didn't, Thorn did. He went lower, in case you fell, and then you did._ Taiven could tell that Miremel was unhappy that she was on another dragon.

_Yes, you did, though I can't see why you didn't just use the door._ Murtagh's voice said, teasingly, but Taiven snapped back.

_I didn't use the door because I didn't want the men to get in and shut the gate again._ Murtagh seemed shocked at that.

_But Orrin didn't say to keep them open! Just to open them! We could have left them, that's what I did_. Taiven cursed at herself. She thought about going back, but the troops were already surging into the city through the open half of the gate.

_This could have been avoided! _Taiven cursed again. _Next time, Murtagh, if you see a bloody loophole, tell me!_ She silently made herself a promise as well. Whenever she could, she would search for a loophole, a way out, a way to misinterpret, a way to inconvenience Orrin and his men, however small. She had been unobservant, and a city had been broken into because of it. Even then, the men were penetrating deeper into Dras-Leona, towards the keep, fighting and killing and slaughtering.

Because of her.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: In the Streets of Dras-Leona.**

Zimar walked through the gate, at the head of the army. A thousand men ran at them, yelling, and the soldiers crowded forwards around Zimar. He walked on ahead, drawing his swords. They were straight, thin, and sharp, thinner and sharper than normal blades, but also stronger. He had cast spells to strengthen the weapons, and he regularly put more energy into the magic, just to be sure. He had scavenged the swords from the relatively few dead elves at Uru'baen, but there had been enough dead to be picky. He had found the very best swords he could, and they had never failed him.

He continued walking, heading for the soldiers of Nausada's Empire, even as they charged at him, a disorganised mass, but a dangerous one.

Zimar had normal human strength and speed, but he was still able to kill all those he met, due to his magic and his style. He was ruthless, doing whatever it took with whatever he could.

One man stabbed at him as he got within the reach of the army. He deflected the blow to the side, cut off the arm wielding the sword with the sword in his left hand and then the head of the wielder with the other. He lunged forwards, slashing with both swords. One sliced through the mail of one man, but failed to harm him, and one pierced the ribs of another. He fell, coughing up blood, and the sword continued on, stabbing at the man that the other sword had been deflected from whilst blocking a blow the man directed at him. The man collapsed, and blood covered Zimar's sword as he pulled it out, blocking an overhead hammer blow at the same time, slicing open the man's stomach with the sword he had just pulled out from the other man. The soldier crumpled, and Zimar stabbed him in the neck with a knife from his belt before blocking two blows at the same time, lashing out and beheading the attackers in the next second. He dodged a throw from a spear, glancing back to see that it had impaled a man sneaking up behind him and that Orrin's troops had slaughtered the majority of the soldiers. He turned, stabbing with both swords at the soldier who had thrown the spear, now running at him with a raised sword. He was completely open to attack, and the swords pierced his skull and his chest. Zimar charged forwards at the remaining hundred or so defenders, laughing at the death around him. He revelled in the carnage.

The men were backed against a wall, pikes facing outwards, jabbing at the men of Surda. Zimar ran forwards, through the soldiers, who were keeping clear, and dived under the pikes. He rose, still under them, slashing up with his swords on both sides, breaking the line of pikes and allowing the soldiers through. With his swords at his sides, extended as far as they would go, Zimar would be unable to quickly block the blade heading his way. He dropped his swords, moving his hands to the knives on his belt and stepping to the side, changing his style to that which he used for fighting with daggers. He moved in past the sword slicing downwards, stabbing the owner, and moved in amongst the tightly packed men, so they would find it hard to swing at him. As he went past the first man, he stabbed him in the back, dodging a blow and punching a man in the stomach as he went past. The man crumpled, and Zimar lashed out a leg, tripping him, and then he rolled the man into the legs of all the others. They cursed, attacking. He dodged as much as he could, stabbing and slicing. Many times, men hurt or killed their comrades by mistake, unable to stop their blows after they missed their target. The men of Surda got some from behind as they went for Zimar, penetrating into the fray themselves. Zimar left the rest to them, disengaging and walking to where he had dropped his swords.

"Make way, clear the area, and find me my swords!" The men, stunned by what he had done, obeyed. His swords were handed to him, and after looking and seeing that all the men had been killed, he yelled, "Forwards, first group! We head down the main street. Bring those battering rams over here!" He called to the men coming through the gate with two medium-sized rams. They nodded, heading towards him. The first group gathered around him, and he gestured towards the rams. A quarter of you lot, guard those! The rest, just follow me. You lot are at the rear," he said to the men who were now surrounding the rams. He glanced around, satisfied, and began to advance down the street. He could see the second group splitting up, going to capture the rest of the city, and his men followed him.

They walked through the city for a long way, heading for the keep, and not checking the houses, leaving that to the group behind. They were advancing through a particularly run-down area when arrows and war-cries sprouted from the dark and rotting houses on either side. It would not be a safe place for his men to go in anyway, even with no enemies, but he had to carry on with as many men as possible as fast as possible. A number of his men had already fallen. Before a second volley was fired, Zimar barked, "Jierda!"

There was a splintering sound as all the houses on either side collapsed. It cost Zimar a lot of strength, but a lot less than he feared. If the houses hadn't been so run down, something the soldiers must have thought was an advantage, as no-one would follow them in there, had been their undoing. Surdan troops killed any who had survived the fall, and then Zimar advanced again, a little slower now, but not much.

A hundred horsemen were waiting at the end of the next road. They wore the brown clothes of Nausada's army, and they began to charge at Zimar and his men.

"Arrows!" The archers, who were near the back fired. Around half of the men fell, but before the archers could fire again, the men were upon them.

Lunging, Zimar stabbed two horses in the chest, halting them and nearly breaking his arms. The riders flew off and were killed quickly. Zimar threw a dagger into the face of the next horseman, then jumped up, yanked it out of him, and leapt onto the horse of another man, who was attacking the Surdans. He stabbed him, then jumped down, as the rest of the horsemen were overwhelmed by the numbers of their enemies. "Forward! We can't lose momentum!" Zimar cried, starting to run around the final bend before the keep.

It loomed before him, an imposing mass of rock. Archers lined the battlements, and a few thousand men stood outside the gate, which was shut. Zimar hesitated, then jumped back around the corner as the archers fired. Those men would be a problem. He had more, but with the archers it would be tricky to get in without large loss of life.

He stopped the men from charging around the corner. His army halted, one step away from the keep.

I need a distraction... Something to confuse the archers as well, so we can engage the men without them noticing and they won't harm their own troops... I know! He gathered himself, ready to use magic.

"Stenr slauta!" A sharp, cleaving sound came from the walls of the keep, shocking most of the men, while Zimar charged forwards, yelling "Come on!" The soldiers in front of the keep, and those on the battlements, stared at it in horror, wondering what had happened, turning away from Zimar to look at the strong walls, still perfectly safe, fine, and intact the whole way through. All Zimar had done was make them make a noise! He laughed at their idiocy and at how easy they would be to kill, all with their backs to him!

He reached the soldiers, beheading three from behind with his left sword, stabbing another with his right. He advanced, hacking at their backs, until some of them noticed him and the other soldiers. They turned around, yelling, and fought back. The archers fired, and Zimar's wards deflected one arrow into the face of a man in front of him. It wasn't a desired effect of the wards, but it had come in useful. He stabbed a man and kicked another, his blood boiling with desire for their deaths. The man he had kicked reeled back, stumbled over a body and got a spear in the throat from one of Orrin's soldiers. Zimar rushed forwards, towards the gate, where the enemy soldiers were rallying and preparing for a charge. Suddenly, they rushed forwards, all heading for Zimar.

He cursed, but he remained still, yelling, "To me!" The men of Surda grouped behind him, and then he charged forwards, towards the soldiers charging at him. There were a lot, but the Surdans were more, and as Zimar blocked two swords, pushed them forwards and head-butted a man in the face, they charged too, and more closed in from the sides. The Imperial soldiers pressed forwards though, trying to reach and kill Zimar. His swords were still locked with the other two, so he jumped back, throwing them high in the air, stabbing the man with two daggers from his belt as their blows descended, returning the daggers, catching the swords again and beheading the men.

He was almost as shocked as everyone else looked.

While they were still surprised, he decapitated a man, deflected a sword off to the side and stabbed the owner in the heart. Dodging a lunge, Zimar slashed a man in the shin, then thrust his other sword up into the man's skull. Almost all the soldiers guarding the gate had fallen, and the Surdans surged forwards with new strength. Zimar left it to them. He was still tired from the magic.

"Bring those rams up here! Now!" The troops around the battering rams, who had been shooting arrows at the soldiers on the battlements, advanced. The last soldier fell, and a cheer went up from the Surdans. The battering rams reached the gate, and began to pound on it. The sound echoed throughout the city, the deep thuds, one after the other, over and over, reverberating through the keep. The gate was strong, though, and would not fall easily.

Zimar felt another toll on his strength as his wards deflected yet another arrow. The archers had been firing for the last ten minutes, and the Surdans had been holding their shields above their heads. Some of the arrows were aimed at Zimar, who had no shield, but his wards protected him from the few that would've actually hit him.

He had, however, managed to recover some strength, and he strode to the front of the army. He had heard something give in the gate. The battering rams swung back, then forwards, and the gate bent a bit. Backwards, then forwards. One door bent in a bit more. An arrow glanced off Zimar's wards. He paid it no attention. The other door bent in, and the first one bent still further. "Archers, prepare to fire!" Zimar called. Bowstrings were tightened and bows were raised. Backwards, then forwards. The gates swung a bit more. "When they open, fire! Battering rams, make this a strong one." The people holding the rams nodded, backed off a bit, and ran forwards.

The doors swung open, and the archers fired. There were a lot of men in the hall, more than there had been outside. They charged forwards, as did Zimar and the Surdans. Both groups were met with arrows, and then they collided. This time, Zimar wasn't sure who had the most troops, though he suspected the Surdans had the advantage still. They had lost relatively few men so far, and they would certainly have outnumbered the force with their original number of troops. But that didn't matter to Zimar now. What mattered to him was fighting, and killing.

Ducking past two men, he hit their heads with the pommels of his swords, knocking them unconscious to be killed by his soldiers. A man slashed downwards at him, and Zimar stepped forwards, sliding his sword right through the man's ribcage. A choke escaped him, and he fell off the sword, onto the ground. He lunged forwards, slicing open a man's side, then stabbing him through the eye. A massive sword came for Zimar. He couldn't avoid it, so he flipped back onto the floor and slashed at the legs of the wielder, who jumped, cutting down. Zimar rolled to the side, avoiding the blade, and threw a sword into the man's chest. The man fell back, dead, but more came in from the sides, and Zimar had to draw a dagger, as he couldn't retrieve the sword. He slashed wildly, but men were coming from all directions. He threw his other sword, drawing another dagger and dashing out of the circle that had surrounded him through the gap where the man he'd thrown the sword at was, dodging blows from the men on either side of it and stabbing one of them. He quickly pulled the sword from the second body, then sliced around, cutting off an arm as it neared him. He leapt forward, grabbed the other sword and did not turn, rather, he continued through the men, heading for the end of the hall away from the doors.

He blocked, retaliated, and dodged, his objective not to kill them all, but to distract as many of them from the Surdans as he could. He was tiring, and his wards blocked a blow from behind, making him stagger, but he had nearly reached the archers, who were firing at the men advancing through the doors. He slashed at the first line, breaking bows, and he lunged forwards. The archers, without time to draw their short swords, were easy to kill, and Zimar, despite his exhaustion, broke through the line of archers. He turned around and smiled.

The archers had all stopped firing, and the Surdans rushed in fast. A number of soldiers had chased Zimar through the archers, and were staring at him as he stood against the wall. The distraction of those men had meant that the Surdans already in the hall had divided the mass into two separate groups, both being surrounded, attacked and killed by superior numbers. A lot of Zimar's troops ran in from the door, through the gap between the ever-decreasing groups of Nausada's soldiers, and attacked the men in front of him from behind. The distraction allowed Zimar to cut off a few heads and advance through the men towards his own soldiers. He stabbed a man through the heart, deflected a strike and slashed deep into a leg, drawing out a surge of blood. The gore ran along his swords, making them redder than Zar'roc, as Zimar decapitated one more, stabbed a man fighting one of his soldiers in the back and retreated to behind his own men. Zimar was exhausted by the end of it. He watched as his men eliminated one of the groups of soldiers, then the next, then he turned to see the last man's head get bashed in. His forces had been victorious. Now all they had to do was secure the rest of the keep.

"Spread out and search this dump! Now! Kill every last soldier you find!" The Surdans, who still had several thousand men, split up, three thousand staying to defend the gate from a possible counter-attack from the outside, and the rest dividing up to search the place. As they did so, Zimar heard a roar of sorrow from a dragon.

_Have they completed their mission? What's happened?_


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29: Murtagh and Nausada.**

Murtagh dismounted Thorn, who was still invisible. He had kept his mind open to Taiven's, and they had landed on the roof of the keep, behind a large row of soldiers with bows. The dragons had feared that the Empire guessed about their plan, and had put the archers on the roof to kill them, or drive them away, but the attack from the Surdans had them all at the side where the gate was in no time, and the dragons landed without difficulty in the large space on the roof, out of the archers' view, not that it mattered. Taiven had got off Thorn as well, saying_, Thank you, Thorn, for saving me._

_I did what I had to, _Thorn replied. He and Miremel jumped off the keep, and hovered some distance above. Taiven and Murtagh headed off to the other side of the roof to the soldiers. Their orders had been to head in when the army broke in, so they were in no hurry. Murtagh sat down on the stone floor, and Taiven did the same.

_I hope they don't manage to break in. Then we won't have to go in at all, and we can just wait up here. _Taiven remarked, hopefully. Murtagh laughed quietly.

_That's not really very likely, and if we were up here, what would we eat? We'd just starve. Besides, they'll probably manage to break in. Zimar is at the head of their army, and he is ruthless. I only hope that the men in there put up a very good fight, so even more of the soldiers die. If they're weakened enough, then they'll have very little chance at Ilirea, especially if the city receives reinforcements quickly._ Murtagh was a little less hopeful than Taiven. He was more certain about the strength of Orrin's army compared to the forces defending both Dras-Leona and Ilirea, and he was pretty sure that Orrin would win against both of them combined, so it was vital that Nausada's forces depleted his strength as much as possible.

_We wouldn't starve, Thorn and Miremel could easily hunt food for us, even if it was meat... Aside from that, you're right._ Murtagh was puzzled by that. What was wrong with meat? He remembered hearing something about the elves not eating meat, so he supposed it was the same for the riders. Galbatorix hadn't told him much about the riders. Only what was needed for him to fight.

_I need to learn..._ He knew less than Taiven on the matters of the Riders, and he was almost ten years older than her! _I shall have to be trained by Eragon, after this is over. I should have done it before this even began. _He hadn't meant for Taiven to hear, but she did.

_It won't be that bad. Arya only just went to Eragon for training, and hers took a week. Firnen's is taking longer, but you should be fine. _Murtagh was surprised to hear that Arya had needed training, and he didn't even know who Firnen was.

_Um, Taiven? Who's Firnen?_ Surprise radiated from her, she seemed shocked that he didn't know. He didn't know all the important people, but he knew of a lot, and he had never heard of Firnen.

_Well, I guess you left before he... Well, Firnen is Arya's dragon. He hatched after she returned to Ellesmera, and I think he is Saphira's mate. He hatched from the green egg._ She sent him an image of a large green dragon, with Arya on top of him, a circlet around her head. _I thought you'd know._

_No... Well, this is good news. Two very powerful riders are probably flying down to help us_. He was hopeful that they would come soon, but he feared that they would not be soon enough.

Suddenly, they heard a noise. A couple of thuds, coming from the direction of the door to the keep. They were repeated soon after, and Murtagh knew that the Surdans were breaking their way in. The archers fired down, again and again, and Murtagh and Taiven moved nearer the way down into the keep in preparation.

Ten minutes later, nothing had changed. Murtagh was beginning to think that the gate would hold out forever, when there came a shout.

"Archers, prepare to fire!" Murtagh recognised Zimar's voice, and realised that the gates must be weakened. Another call rang out from Zimar. "When they open, fire! Battering rams, make this a strong one." There came a loud bang, a groan from the archers on the roof, the twangs of bowstrings, and the screams of men. The archers turned away from the battlements, rushing towards the way into the keep, where Murtagh and Taiven were sneaking down the stairs. As the archers drew their swords and rushed down, Taiven looked back and fell down the last step with a squeal. Murtagh grabbed her and helped her up, but it was too late. The men had heard, and they charged down, all but one man, who closed his eyes, and a weak mental attack hit Murtagh. Before he could retaliate against the magician, the men were upon them, stabbing at the air and yelling. Murtagh, as Taiven was still off balance, drew Zar'roc. The blade, enchanted, became visible as it left the scabbard. A brown sword appeared next to Murtagh as he blocked the blows directed at him. It lunged, and something brushed against Murtagh. He slashed at the men in front of him, with all his strength, as the brown sword drove forwards into one of them. He missed as they jumped back, and Murtagh barely stopped the blow from wounding Taiven, who was still invisible.

_We're going to kill each other like this..._ Murtagh released the invisibility spell, drawing gasps from the soldiers, and Taiven did likewise a second afterwards. They charged forwards, working together this time, and Murtagh lunged, stabbing a man in the throat, then he twisted the sword and tore it out of the neck to the side, cutting off a head. The men were falling back, and the Riders advanced. Taiven ducked a blow, sending a kick at a man's side then spinning and sweeping his legs from under him. He cursed, as Taiven disarmed another man, and he swung his sword at her legs. She jumped over it, whilst blocking another blow, and landed on his stomach, winding him. Murtagh killed the swordless man, and then another as he went for Taiven. He deflected a blow aimed at him as Taiven stabbed the man on the floor, and he punched the man in the face. His hand was hurt, and he thought a finger might be broken, but he slashed at the man's neck anyway and he fell to the floor. There were only a few men left, and the magician, who had his eyes closed, concentrating. Murtagh realised he was contacting someone with his mind, so he raised his hand.

"Jierda!" The man crumpled, his neck broken. The men cried out, turned and ran, Murtagh and Taiven chasing them and killing them. They didn't want to, but they had no choice under the orders they had been given.

They returned to the passageway, a long, thin place of black stone and dark doors. It reminded Murtagh of Uru'baen, and he shuddered. He spoke a spell and healed his hand, the skin itching horribly. They advanced along the corridor, encountering no-one, then descended down some stairs, to a lighter level of the keep. Murtagh rounded a corner, and saw ten men outside a door. They were on the alert, swords out, glancing everywhere, and they wore the uniform of the Nighthawks.

Murtagh ducked back around the corner, signalling to Taiven to do the same. She raised an eyebrow, and he nodded.

_That magician must have alerted them, and maybe someone else with a mirror and some skill at magic. The rest of the Empire may soon know about what's happened to us. But first..._ Murtagh steadied himself, ready for the fight. He glanced at Taiven, then ran around the corner as fast as an elf. She gasped and followed, running with the speed of a normal human.

_Damn! She'll have a hard time against these guards if they're the same speed._ Murtagh shrugged off his doubts and ran faster. She'd be fine.

With Nausada, though, that was a different question.

The Nighthawks saw him, and the first three charged, shields before them like a battering ram. Murtagh glanced around, then flipped over them. They turned, and he ran on, heading for the other seven. He blocked a blow, kicked the man's shin but couldn't finish him, as another swung at him, and the three were coming on from behind. He blocked the blow and spun around to face those coming up behind him, lashing out with a back kick as he did so. The kick connected, and Murtagh lunged forwards, stabbing one of the charging men and avoiding a sword thrust at the same time. The heads of the other two fell to the ground and Taiven leapt over the bodies, blocking a strike heading for Murtagh as she did so. He turned again, and they advanced upon the seven men in front of the doors. A spear was thrown, and Murtagh caught it, spinning it around and stabbing at a man, who slashed at it with his sword, breaking the spear, but Taiven leapt forwards, deflecting the sword more to the side, slashing into the man's shoulder and drawing the brown sword across his torso, blocking another strike in the process. Murtagh lunged, catching the man who had attacked Taiven in the neck, as she blocked a weak blow from the injured man and beheaded him. He swung at another soldier, one of the only five left, but a shield blocked the blow, and a sword went for him. He parried it easily with his superior speed, then sliced through the man's shield, then his arm, and then forwards into his chest as Taiven cut a man on the forehead, stepping in and bringing her sword around to do so. She blocked a blow as the blood blinded the man and he backed away, flailing at her wildly. She timed her strike right, thrusting the sword up into the man's skull, through the chin. Gore splattered the floor.

Three men stood in front of them. They were the last ones, and they all yelled and charged, leading with their shields, like the first three had. Once again, Murtagh jumped over, but Taiven slashed at a man's head. He raised his shield up and she dived for his legs. He fell, cursing, and she got up, blocking a blow just before Murtagh beheaded the two men still upright. Taiven slashed down, killing the man she had knocked to the floor.

Murtagh was surprised at her level of skill. He wasn't sure if he'd have been able to do that if he didn't have the speed of an elf. "Well fought, Taiven." She nodded.

"You too, Murtagh." She replied, and he nodded back. He turned to the door.

"Ladrin!"

Open.

The door swung open, revealing a well decorated room with a four-poster bed, a few chairs, a decoratively carved table, and Nausada.

She wore a crown, a golden necklace with a bright gem on it, a white dress, and she was holding a jewelled dagger close to her side. She looked just as beautiful as ever to Murtagh, and his love rose up within him as he saw her again after so long. But his sword was raised, and he was walking towards her, knowing and hating what he was going to do. He just wanted to tell her how he felt before he was forced to kill her, as he knew he would be. She gasped as she saw him.

"Murtagh! I-" Murtagh cut her off as she began to back away from him, seeing the blood on his sword.

"Nausada, I'm sorry for this, I truly am, I don't want to do this Nausada, I truly don't, I would rather die, I love you Nausada, I love you, and this is something I would never do willingly, I'm sorry." Murtagh blurted out, still walking, his sword raised to kill the woman he loved. Her eyes seemed to light up when he told her he loved her, but as she backed away, they showed sadness, and regret. His sword was behind his head, ready for the blow, when she spoke.

"I love you too, Murtagh, and I never wanted this. I want you to know that." She stepped forwards as his sword descended, and she kissed him. The blade didn't hit her, but the pommel did, and it pushed her onto him even more. Murtagh reeled back, losing himself in the kiss, gazing into her eyes, and he saw regret in them, even as there was regret in his, as his sword came around behind her, ready to kill.

Murtagh tried to stop it, but his arm stabbed, impaling Nausada in her back, piercing deep, even as Murtagh felt something in his own back. It burned, staying there, but he did not care, he was staring at Nausada, who was still in his arms, gazing up at him, and he kissed her lips tenderly, and with her dying breath, she returned his kiss, love in her eyes, before she fell limp and passed into the Void.

Murtagh gazed at her face, as he held her upright, sadness and rage at Orrin running through him. "NO! NO! I SHALL AVENGE HER! I SHALL AVENGE HER, THE NIGHTHAWKS, AND ALL WHO HAVE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU, ORRIN! I SHALL KILL YOU!" He collapsed on the floor, crying, as a mighty roar of sorrow came from Thorn, feeling his Rider's pain.

His back still seemed like it was on fire, and he reached around, feeling it. All seemed normal; normal for him, that is, which meant a great big scar; until he grasped the hilt of a knife. He pulled it out and looked at it.

It was the dagger Nausada had been holding, and it was covered in blood. The blood was his, but the knife had not gone deep. It had been stopped by a rib, but it had penetrated past a bit nonetheless. She must have tried to stab him just as he had been forced to stab her, or it would have gone deeper and penetrated his heart or lungs. He wished it had, for he had almost nothing left to live for. He looked at her body again.

_Nausada, you never did give up, did you? Not even in Uru'baen. And now, like then, I am the one who seems to have lost hope. I swear, Nausada, I swear by my love for you, that I shall not give up, I shall fight on, and I shall slay the traitor who made this happen._ Murtagh cried again, the tears flowing freely. Suddenly a hand touched his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Taiven said, compassion in her voice and sadness in her eyes. "I really am." He nodded, and she looked at his back. "Shall I heal that for you?" He nodded again, and she knelt down next to him. She investigated the wound, and then spoke in the ancient language. Murtagh felt an itching as the wound healed up, and then she stood again. Murtagh kept kneeling down next to Nausada's body, too sad to move.

"Eka elrun ono," he mumbled, not looking up.

After a minute, Taiven said, "Murtagh, we should go. You can mourn elsewhere, Orrin never said to return immediately. We can fly off and bury her, somewhere nice, away from here." Murtagh nodded, picked Nausada up, and carried her out. They avoided a bunch of soldiers by darting up some stairs, and they reached the roof, which was still empty. They removed the enchantments around Thorn and Miremel, they mounted them, and then they cast the spells again, around themselves as well. The dragons took off, heading away from the city.

Murtagh walked onto the hill of sandstone and set down Nausada's body. He gazed at her, longingly, and then he spoke. "Moi Stenr."

The stone moved, hollowing out a space that Nausada sank down into. The stone flowed over her, covering the woman Murtagh loved for all eternity. He raised a spire, above her head, and inscribed a memorial into the rock.

_Here lies Nausada,_

_Leader of the Varden,_

_High Queen of the Humans,_

_She who united all the races,_

_Against one evil King,_

_Killed because of another,_

_Never gave up,_

_Until the end,_

_Here she lies._

_The one who holds my heart,_

_And always will._

He cried his heart out, Taiven looked sad, and even Thorn grieved with him. The red dragon was feeling things that he almost never felt, emotions that he was unused to surging through him, and he touched the stone with his nose, and turned it not into Diamond, but into Gold. And as the sun set over the two Riders and two dragons standing on the rock, it glinted off the gold, giving it a beautiful red hue. But then, like Murtagh's love, the sun flashed strongly, before setting, and the land was bathed in darkness, just like Murtagh's heart.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30: Travels.**

It was night over the huge forest. Saphira and Firnen had been flying south, hard and fast, for three days, heading for Ilirea. The winds, however, had not been favourable, with a strong headwind throughout the first two days. Since then, they had made some progress, but they couldn't hope to reach Ilirea in a total of nine days of travel. It would be seven more days at best to reach Ilirea, but the winds were not helping as much as they could, in fact, it was a dead calm.

The dragons, tired from three days in the air, were both breathing hard. Eragon decided that they would have to land soon, and he contacted Saphira. He winced as he felt the strain she was going through, just trying to keep going.

_Saphira, you and Firnen should rest, you're both exhausted._ He sensed stubbornness and pride in her, but she conceded the point wordlessly. Eragon could tell that the pride within her wouldn't allow her to admit her tiredness to anyone other than Eragon, not even her mate, so Eragon didn't ask her to. He reached out to Firnen, wincing again upon feeling Firnen's aching muscles.

_Firnen, we need to rest. We can't keep going any longer, and you're tired._ The green Dragon accepted what he had said, beginning to swoop down towards a clearing. Saphira followed him.

_As you wish, Eragon._ Firnen's voice was strained, and he just glided the rest of the way down, so as not to exhaust himself even further.

Eragon dismounted Saphira, glad to stretch his legs after so long in the saddle. He reached up to Saphira and undid the straps of the saddle. It fell to the ground, and Saphira growled in appreciation, rolling her shoulders. Firnen did the same as his saddle was removed, and he walked over to Saphira. They touched noses, and lay down next to each other, looking into the centre of the clearing, their heads side by side.

They were in a large clearing, surrounded on all sides by the dark leaves and trunks of pine trees. The stars were shining overhead, and there was the moon as well, it's light bathing the glade in an eerie light. While it was enough to see by, especially for elves, Eragon found a campfire a lot more reassuring. He summoned wood with magic, making a campfire, and said "Istalri!" The flames burst into life, and Eragon glanced at Arya, who was standing still, looking at him.

She had Tamerlien in her hands, blocking the edges. "Duel?" She grinned. He smiled and nodded. Unlike the Dragons, they had energy to spare, and they would have to practice for the upcoming battles. Eragon drew Brisingr and blocked it.

They stood, ready, until at the same moment they both charged forwards. Eragon swung Brisingr, and there was a loud clang as the swords clashed. She slashed back, and he parried the blow, deflecting Tamerlien up and stepping towards her. He expected her to move away, but she stepped forwards too, knocking his strike away with the pommel of the sword as she brought it down and slicing at his head. He stepped to the side, bringing Brisingr up and swinging it diagonally across her torso. She twisted, bringing Tamerlien around to block, and Brisingr was deflected away from Eragon, as Tamerlien slid down its length on the side nearest to Eragon, pushing it past Arya, and hit the crossguard. She simply flicked her sword towards his chest, whilst moving sideways towards him. Eragon gasped as the sword hit him, hard, just over his heart.

"Dead." Arya proclaimed, grinning. The dragons laughed from the side at the look on Eragon's face.

"Rematch," Eragon said, moving away, with Brisingr again in a defensive position ahead of him. She nodded, and ran at him. He deflected the blow that came down at his head to the left, guessed that Arya would come round that way for another blow, and stepped forwards on his right foot, pretending to lunge at her, extending himself farther than he should have if he was really trying his hardest. Arya moved to the left, as he had guessed, and before she could strike at his back, which was left open by the rash attack, he stepped forwards again on his left leg, rather than trying to stop himself falling, lashing out with the leg at her feet as he did so. She was caught by surprise and swept off her feet, as Eragon rolled, got up, and charged at her. She got to her knees, then saw Eragon. She lifted her sword and feinted at his legs, flicking the blow up towards his stomach. He flipped over her, turned and stepped away from her slash backwards, resting Brisingr on her shoulder, next to her neck.

"Dead." He grinned this time, and Arya narrowed her eyes playfully.

"Best out of three." She got to her feet.

This time, Eragon charged. He struck at her side, and she blocked the blow, as he whirled around, striking at the same place again. Again it was blocked, and she struck at his legs as fast as she could. Eragon jumped high, landing a bit back from where he started. She glanced around, and then she kicked at a small stone. It flew at Eragon's head, and he ducked. Arya charged forwards with a downwards swing, and Brisingr barely managed to block the blow. Eragon stumbled and rolled away, but Arya leapt after him. He rose, raising Brisingr to block an anticipated strike to his head or neck, but Tamerlien went for his chest, Arya tilting it up halfway through the blow to get his throat. He moved to his right and swung Brisingr down, whilst Arya flicked Tamerlien to the side, heading for his throat again.

Brisingr hit the back of her neck, Eragon slowing the blow so as not to harm her, just as Tamerlien made contact. She smiled at him.

"Dead again, Eragon," Arya said, smiling.

"Ah, but you died too. It was a draw, and we are even." Eragon replied. She grinned, and so did he.

"True." They walked over to their saddlebags, and Eragon found some blankets for warmth. He lay them on the ground near the fire, as he sensed that the dragons were tired and wanted some time to themselves. He began to lie down on them, as did Arya, but then he remembered Dras-Leona, and Roran and he decided to scry them. He stood up, and Arya glanced at him questioningly. He gestured for her to stay there, and he retrieved the small mirror he used for scrying from the saddlebags, then he walked over to the fire again, sitting next to Arya. She sat up too, as he spoke the spell of scrying.

The mirror went black, then it resolved itself into a picture of a city from above. Eragon and Arya gasped in horror. It was Dras-Leona, and it didn't look good. There were several fires burning, all across the city, all of the buildings on one street appeared to have collapsed entirely, in several places, bodies of men in brown armour were piled up, and in one, a large pile of men in orange armour were being counted by other men in orange. In a couple of places, people fought on, but it was clear that the city had been taken, and it was clear who had taken it. The flag of Surda flew over the keep in the centre of the city, blowing strongly in the wind.

Eragon gazed, distraught, at the number of dead throughout the city. The soldiers had been killed mercilessly, and the keep had obviously been broken into and taken, judging by the battering rams left outside the broken door and the men in orange who were clearing bodies out of the building. The keep, Eragon knew, was where Nausada had been.

_What's happened to her? What's more, do Roran and Jormundur know?_ Eragon decided to scry Roran first. He spoke the words, and he saw the image change to one of Roran and Jormundur in a tent. Eragon recognised it as Nausada's old red command pavilion. Jormundur was sitting, Roran was standing, and they were looking at a map on a table. Roran drew a line on the map, a route for the army, Eragon guessed, and Jormundur considered, then nodded. Before he could speak, Arya spoke to them.

"Greetings Roran, Jormundur. What have you heard of Dras-Leona?" They jumped slightly, Roran's hand flying to his hammer and Jormundur's to his sword, and then they saw Eragon and Arya. Jormundur appeared surprised at how close they were to one another, and Roran just grinned at them, but then he turned serious.

"What has become of the city and the Queen? We know nothing other than that the keep was broken into and two Riders, one with a red sword and one with a brown, snuck in from the top, so we fear the worst. After our magician told us this, men broke into the room and killed him." It was Roran who spoke, a frown on his face and sadness in his eyes. Eragon sighed, unwilling to be the one to tell them about the bad news. Nevertheless, he spoke.

"The city has been taken, and the keep too. Orrin's flag flies above it, and his men pile bodies in the courtyard. It is the very picture of sadness. We do not know about Nausada, but likewise, we fear the worst. And if Murtagh and Taiven were there, they are under Orrin's control, and we need to move as quickly as possible to get to Ilirea. How soon will you be there?"

"We should reach the city in around eight days, but Orrin will be there in five or six. When should you arrive?" It was Jormundur who replied this time, a worried look in his eyes.

"Seven days to get to Ilirea at best, at the very worst, eleven. If they take the Capital, when will you attack?" Eragon wanted to find out when they should aim to be there. If more bad weather came, they would arrive after the army, so he needed to know their plans. Roran and Jormundur glanced at each other.

"As soon as you get here. Then we have the best chance." Eragon nodded at Roran's words, pleased. They weren't planning anything rash.

"What, weren't you going to ride a battering ram down the Ramr River and off into the side of Orrin's head?" He teased, remembering Roran's battle at Auroghs. The two men grinned.

"No, I thought I'd leave that up to the one who decided to run across the Empire for no good reason that he'll ever tell me, why?" Eragon smiled at that, as did Arya next to him, but they quickly reverted back to being serious again.

"Well, see you when we get there, alright?" They nodded, and they said farewell.

Eragon was about to end the spell, when Roran suddenly cried, "Wait!" Eragon stopped, listening. "We got a message from Ilirea. Apparently, the new elf Rider has travelled there from Ellesmera, because he heard about the invasion." Eragon and Arya glanced at each other, shocked.

"Dusan is at Ilirea?" Arya asked, sharply. "How did he find out about the attack?" Roran shrugged in reply. "We shall contact him now, and he can return to you. Where can he find you?" She asked them.

The leaders glanced at each other, then Jormundur said, "Just tell him to fly straight for Gil'ead. He'll see us on the way." Eragon nodded, and he ended the spell. He dug into his energy reserves, and he cast another scrying spell, to speak to Dusan.

The Rider appeared in the large Dragonhold Nausada had had built in Ilirea. Laenar was behind him, and he was practising with Rakr. Eragon noted that he wielded the sword with great skill, but that made him no less willing to put the young elf in danger.

"Dusan, what are you doing in Ilirea?" The Rider spun around, sword ready, then he saw them and sheathed Rakr.

"Ebrithilar, I have come to defend the capital from King Orrin and his men." He had ignored the traditional greeting, as had Eragon, but he twisted his hand over his sternum nonetheless. Eragon and Arya hurriedly did the same.

"Firstly, who told you about Orrin? Dathedr said he wouldn't. Secondly, it isn't just Orrin and his men. He has managed to control both Murtagh and Taiven, and their dragons, and they have just assisted him in taking over Dras-Leona. And finally, you are to leave the city right now, and head for Gil'ead. The garrison there is on its way to Ilirea, and we shall meet it there, but with the size of Orrin's army, Ilirea has little hope of holding out, and I would not risk your lives in a hopeless battle when you could leave, stay safe and instead fight in one which has some hope. Am I clear?" Eragon was determined to get his point across, and to avoid losing the talented young rider. It was bad enough that Taiven was in danger.

"Firstly, I overheard your conversation with Dathedr. Secondly, and finally, any help I can give will be an asset in the coming battle here, and I feel honour-bound to protect the city to the best of my ability. I understand your fear, but would it not be better at least to defend a city rather than attack? Then, the walls are on our side, as are the catapults and ballistae. Should I not use this advantage when I can?" Eragon sighed. Dusan had a point.

"Dusan, this isn't just about you and the advantages you have now. It's about us on a whole, the Riders, and the leaders of the empire, all having every advantage we can get. It is more of an advantage to us if our riders outnumber theirs later than if they outnumber you now and then it is even between us later. And it is the Riders that shall end this, Dusan. The Riders will be the main players in this game, and we will be the ones who decide the fate of Alagaesia. We have to all stand united, all those who can, or we shall fall, just like the old Order did to Galbatorix. Do you understand?" Dusan seemed to think, and then he nodded.

"Ebrithilar, I understand, and I shall fly and meet with the army from Gil'ead now." Relief flooded Eragon's body.

"Thank you, Dusan. It means a lot to me that you agreed." Dusan nodded and began to gather up his things, and Eragon ended the spell.

_Well, that's done. Now only one thing remains..._ Eragon had been putting it off until last, but he could avoid it no longer.

_Aye, it is time to grieve a death, or celebrate an escape against all the odds. Do it now, Eragon, we should know sooner rather than later_. Arya said, her words perhaps not being very cheerful, but they were realistic, and Eragon knew they were true.

He prepared himself to see something horrible, and spoke the words of the scrying spell.

The mirror went blank, then golden, illuminated by the light of the moon. Eragon stared, puzzled, and then he saw writing on it, writing that he was only just able to decipher by the little light. The inscription said:

_Here lies Nausada,_

_Leader of the Varden,_

_High Queen of the Humans,_

_She who united all the races,_

_Against one evil King,_

_Killed because of another,_

_Never gave up,_

_Until the end,_

_Here she lies._

_The one who holds my heart,_

_And always will._

Eragon knew then that Murtagh had made the inscription, and he realised that although it said that she was killed because of another evil king, it didn't say by, and due to the fact that he had managed to recover the body of the Queen, and it said that she never gave up until the end, Murtagh himself had been forced to kill her, or he had been there. Eragon was saddened that such a great person had died, and that Murtagh would be so grieved again. After all that Murtagh had been through, all the people he had been forced to kill already, the last thing he deserved was the death of "The one who holds his heart, and always will."

Likewise, Nausada, always the greatest force for peace that there was, who had rebuilt a powerful empire from its own ruins, had deserved to live on in the time of peace and prosperity that she herself had started, not to die, killed because of one that wanted it for himself.

He couldn't bring himself to contact Roran and Jormundur with the news, when he could barely come to terms with it himself. He ended the spell, and lay down, still shocked. Poor Murtagh...

_Aye, and poor Nausada. She shall be sorely missed._ Arya said, lying next to him and putting her head on his shoulder. He smiled at her, but his heart was heavy, and she could tell, so she kissed him, and he kissed her back, his mood lightening, as it always did when he was with Arya. He relaxed, and soon they were asleep, lying together in the light of the moon, and so were the dragons at the side of the clearing, the green and blue scales contrasting sharply to the darkness around them, and the darkness gathering in the air, to the south, as the campfire continued to burn, then, slowly, it flickered and died down, leaving just a pile of embers, like the last piece of resistance in Dras-Leona that was slowly being crushed, even as the rest of Orrin's men prepared to leave, taking the supplies and the weapons they needed with them as they headed back to their camp outside the city.

They were preparing to march on the capital.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31: Roran.**

Roran walked through the camp as the soldiers began to move out. He was looking for a magician under his command, to contact Katrina. He had been too busy for the last couple of days, planning the attack with Jormundur. Since Eragon had scried them, he had not replied. It was now a day since then, and the lack of information on Nausada was beginning to worry him, and to annoy him. He resolved to have the magician, who was called Fiark, contact Eragon as well. Katrina first, though.

He spotted Fiark. He was on his horse, ready to leave, near the front of the army. Roran called to him, and he immediately dismounted, greeting Roran as he did so.

"Hail, Stronghammer! What do you want me for?" Roran grinned as he replied.

"The usual, as you probably guessed. I want to speak to Katrina. Also, after her, I need you to contact Eragon." Fiark nodded, reaching up to a bag attached to his horse's saddle. He withdrew a small mirror, spoke a few words that were incomprehensible to Roran, and an image of his and Katrina's rooms appeared on the mirror. It was a comfortable place, with a large bed, comfortable chairs, and a soft carpet. Sitting in one of the chairs was Katrina, Ismira playing with a toy in front of her. Roran smiled when he saw them, and Fiark passed him the mirror, then walked off to give him some privacy.

"Katrina! Ismira!" He exclaimed, and Katrina jumped up upon hearing his voice. She stared at the mirror, as Ismira just glanced up, then went back to the toy.

"Roran! You're safe!" Katrina said, relief in her voice that he was alright. He had told her about the attack at Belatona, and that war was the result, as soon as he had found out, and she had, obviously, been worried for him.

"Aye, I am safe, and the plans have been made. We head for Ilirea with all speed, meet Eragon and Arya outside the city if Orrin has taken it already, attack his forces if he hasn't. He probably will have attacked by the time we get there, in fact, he probably will have taken the city. If so, we wait until Eragon and Arya arrive, and then we attack with all force." Katrina looked worried for him. He would be at the head of the army, and a lot of responsibility would fall to him to lead and protect the forces, but he would be under more threat than anyone else. He would have to go wherever fighting was hardest, not just where he was told to go, and that just made it worse.

"Stay safe, Roran. I couldn't bear it if you died. If the priority is to get to Ilirea, does that mean Dras-Leona has fallen?" Roran sighed as he replied.

"Aye, Dras-Leona has fallen. Eragon and Arya told us that they scried the city and Orrin had taken it. He is heading for Ilirea even as we speak, as are we, although we are further away. Nausada was in Dras-Leona when it was attacked, and we don't know what's happened to her yet, as they haven't scried us again. I'll have Fiark scry them in a minute, after we finish talking." Katrina nodded sadly.

"Is there any hope that Nausada has survived?" Roran was silent for a few seconds before answering, and when he did, it was in a slow, mournful tone.

"Very little chance, Eragon and Arya said. The amount of soldiers under Orrin is immense..." He trailed off, saddened by the fact that such a great person had probably passed into the void. She was silent too, remembering the brilliant leader.

"And what's going on with Eragon and Arya?" The question surprised Roran, as he hadn't told her about them yet, as Eragon had asked him to wait.

"How did you know they were together?" He asked her, puzzled by what she had guessed, but she seemed shocked at what he had said, then amused. She laughed at him, and bewilderment appeared on his face.

"I didn't know, I was wondering when they would arrive, you idiot! But it's great news nonetheless! When were you planning to tell me?" Roran laughed at himself, and so did she.

"Well, they may be there in six days, or ten. It depends on the wind, and the weather. I was going to tell you in a bit, Eragon asked for some time without everyone knowing. I should've realised you meant to ask when they were coming!" Roran was still grinning, until he heard the trumpets calling for the rest of the men to come and assemble. "I must go now, my love. Take care," he said to Katrina.

"You too, Roran. Be careful." He nodded, saddened that he would have to stop talking to her, then he gestured to Fiark to stop the spell.

The mirror went back to reflecting him, so he nodded at Fiark again. The magician spoke the spell, and Roran saw the mirror go dark, then it revealed the contents of a bag. Roran didn't want to just see the inside of a bag, so he walked father away from the soldiers and took a deep breath.

"ERAGON!" He yelled, trying to get the attention of his cousin. Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then a hand reached in, feeling for the mirror. It had a Gewedy Ingnasia on it.

The hand groped around for a few seconds, until it reached the mirror. The picture moved forwards, out of the bag, and into rain, splattering the image with droplets. The mirror was quickly wiped clean and shaded with a blanket, and Roran saw Eragon's face. His cousin was soaking, and he seemed to be in the middle of a storm. More than that, Eragon seemed to be abnormally sad, and Roran feared the news that was going to come, all of it.

"What news of Nausada, Eragon? And how much will this storm delay you?" Eragon's face saddened even more.

"This storm may delay us by up to three days, but that is not the truly sad thing. Nausada is dead. We do not know how, or when, but she is dead." The sorrow in his voice was a lot, and Roran himself was grief-stricken for a minute. "We may not be with you for nine or ten days, as this storm is large, but Dusan is heading for you right now. If you see a misty grey dragon and Rider, they are friends." Roran nodded.

"We shall look out for them, and I shall inform the men of Nausada's death. Fly fast, Eragon and Saphira, as you are the only chance we have of stopping Murtagh and Taiven." Eragon nodded gravely.

"We shall. Look out for yourself, Roran." Roran nodded in reply, and Eragon returned the mirror to the bag. Roran walked over to Fiark, who ended the spell as Roran walked over, and gave him the mirror. Roran turned, heading for Snowfire. The horse was not quite as strong as before, but he had more experience. He mounted Snowfire, and headed for the head of the army. Just as he arrived, the trumpets rang out to start the march, and he and Jormundur began to ride, leading the troops to war. As he rode, Roran thought over what Eragon had said, considering what Orrin might do once they arrived outside the capital. He was sure it wouldn't be nice.

Later that day, as they were still riding, several men of the Varden uttered cries of dismay. Glancing around the dry, open terrain, Roran saw nothing, until he glanced upwards.

A glistening grey dragon was gliding down towards them, and Roran could just make out a Rider on its back. Before the Varden panicked, Roran turned in the saddle.

"They are our friends!" He yelled, and the men stopped shouting and returned to their positions, as the Dragon came lower, and closer, finally landing softly in front of Roran and Jormundur. A Rider leapt down, walking over to them, the dragon following. Roran rode forwards, looking at the elf.

He had pointed ears, slanted eyebrows, and he walked gracefully, the same as every elf. He had dark brown hair, quite long, and deep ultramarine eyes, that seemed to suggest power and strength, though how exactly Roran could not understand. It unnerved him. The Rider then turned his gaze on Jormundur, who met the look perfectly normally.

_I suppose he's spent more time around elves than me, the only one I've ever really met is Arya, and he's bound to have met Islanzadi, other important elves, and the new Ambassador, unlike me. He's bound to be more used to the way they look and everything. _Roran turned his gaze on the dragon, which was bigger than Saphira had been last time they met face-to-face, although Saphira would have grown since then. The dragon's eyes, like the Rider's, had great wisdom in them, but they were silver.

The men and the Rider and dragon met, and there was an awkward silence for a second, until Roran spoke.

"You are Dusan, is that right? Eragon said you were coming." Roran was pretty sure it was Dusan, but it seemed polite to ask.

"Yes, I am Dusan, and this is Laenar, my partner. Are you Roran Stronghammer, Eragon's cousin?" He asked, looking at the hammer on Roran's belt. Roran nodded.

"Aye, I am Roran Stronghammer, or so they call me. I am glad you could come, we will need all the help we can get when we reach Ilirea." Dusan nodded in grim acknowledgement of the statement, then turned to Jormundur, who introduced himself.

"Greetings, Rider. It is an honour to meet you. I am Jormundur, Nausada's second in command, in command here due to her absence." Roran realised that he hadn't told Jormundur about Nausada, and as Dusan had not corrected him, he also didn't know about the death.

"You two, there is something you should know. I had a magician scry Eragon earlier, to enquire about what has happened to Nausada. Eragon doesn't know how, or where, but she is dead." Dusan bowed his head at the news, as Roran turned to Jormundur, who looked shocked. "It appears that you are in control now, and you should be the leader of all that we have of the Empire while you have it." Jormundur thought, sadness all over his face. Eventually, he seemed to come to a conclusion.

"If the Queen is dead... And it is necessary... Then I shall bear this burden, and I shall lead my people as well as I can, doing what is right for all the races, and avenging Nausada. This I swear, on Angvard's crown. I shall do this, or I shall die. There are no other choices, no other options. We shall fight." Roran bowed, and Dusan inclined his head.

"May your rule bring peace back to Alagaesia, Jormundur-vodhr. I hope you keep your crown for a long time, and your Kingdom prospers." Dusan said, rather formally, Roran thought.

"Aye, good luck," said Roran, and Jormundur thanked the both of them, before turning round to give the announcement about the death of Nausada to the army, who were still standing, waiting to continue on with the journey to the capital. Little did they know at that point of the decision that had just been made, the death of the monarch and the command of a new leader, but they would know soon. Jormundur began to speak, and a gasp was heard from the crowd, followed by sorrowful words, and as Jormundur spoke again, applause and cheers, followed by the chanting of his name, broke out. Even as one leader was mourned, another was announced, the cycle of leadership starting again, this time for Jormundur, and though the crowd were happy for him, in their hearts they still mourned a great loss, one that had come at the very worst time.

At the time where things were the worst that they had ever been since the fall of Galbatorix.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32: Elven Politics.**

Dathedr was still in Ellesmera, although the majority of the elves had already departed for Osilon. The elven Lords and Ladies had also remained, choosing to wait and go with the majority of the troops.

He was concerned for the young Rider, Dusan. The day after the meeting with the elves, he had inquired after the Rider, to find that he and Laenar were both nowhere to be seen. He had searched, but it appeared that they had left the city. No-one knew where they were, apart from his sister, Alanna, and she refused to speak.

"If he chose not to tell you, then I shall not betray his trust in me," she had said, and that was all she would say.

Dathedr sighed as he walked through the gardens of the hall, looking at the beauty that his people had nurtured there for hundreds of years. He couldn't imagine where Dusan would rather be, as there was almost nowhere as peaceful and relaxing in Alagaesia. Arya had once told him that she imagined herself in the gardens of Tialdari hall when whenever she thought of the dead, and he could see why. It was a place that calmed you. Already he was relaxing, his fears of the war and the troubles fading away in the tranquil setting.

He looked at the lilies, the roses, the poppies, and all the other flowers arranged just as they would be naturally, if they actually grew in the same places at the same times, as he walked towards the actual hall. He neared the entrance, and as he did so, he heard a couple of elves talking, off to the side. It wasn't anything unusual, two elves talking, but the unusual thing was who it was, and what they were saying.

It was Lord Fiolr, and Lady Bellaen, of Houses Valtharos and Miolandra respectively. Fiolr was speaking.

"...Remains queen for much longer, and more mistakes are made, it could prove to be disastrous for our entire race. I say that we should try to eliminate that risk as soon as possible-by removing her from the throne, I mean, don't look at me like that-and replace her with someone more competent, someone more experienced, someone who speaks out against that sort of risk. Do you agree?" Dathedr walked forwards, slowly and silently. Bellaen was silent for a while, and then she spoke.

"I have to say, Fiolr, I agree. Although, when you say as soon as possible, when do you mean? After the current crisis, I hope." Dathedr could just about see them through the branches. Bellaen was looking into Fiolr's eyes, a bit of authority entering her voice when she finished speaking, in contrast to at the start, when she had almost sounded weak. Fiolr answered reassuringly.

"Of course I mean after, I just mean soon after. Although, if we are to be quick about the decision, we should probably consider our options as to who should become King beforehand, as some of these meetings can take a long time." Bellaen was nodding, and Dathedr could see that Fiolr was standing tall, as if trying to make a good impression and a sneaking suspicion entered his mind.

_He's trying to persuade her that he would be a good king... In fact, he's probably trying to convince a lot of people. He's had a lot of time here, so just attempting to win one over would be a bit of a stupid thing to do... Which means he's probably got a great deal of power over the elves, when it comes to influencing important people. Would he make a good king?_ Dathedr considered, then he came to a conclusion. _No. He has too much pride, and while he may offer things, when he does, it is grudgingly. Also, he dislikes Arya for doing what is necessary, which is a stupid thing to criticise, when you do some things quite unnecessary yourself. Is attempting to win over people against someone who is doing the best she can because you dislike her for no good reason necessary? No, it is hypocritical. He would not work well with other leaders if they disagreed with him or asked him for help, and he would not work well with them in general. He would be a bad king._

_But then,_ Dathedr thought, _who would be a good king?_ The only elf he could think of who was fair, decisive and well respected enough was him. And while he felt he could handle it, he disliked that fact, for it was a flaw within him, but he accepted that and moved on. And as he thought that, a realisation struck him. He felt that he knew himself, that he could put words to who he was. He whispered what he thought of himself, and he shuddered. But that was all. He knew that some people, the butcher Eragon had sent to Ellesmera being one of them, were destroyed by the knowledge of their true names, but a shudder was all that had happened to him. He whispered his name again. It was a good name, it had its flaws, but it was a good name. The question was, Dathedr now realised, was it a good name for a King?

He examined the name, looking at its strengths and its weaknesses. It said that he was confident, no massive flaw for a king to have, and that he was friendly to most, with few exceptions, but even those exceptions were trusted. Friendship was a good thing to have, and trust was a good quality, but not necessarily for a King. Look at what had happened to Nausada, Orrin had betrayed her, because she had trusted him too much, Dathedr guessed. Calmness was also a quality listed, which meant that a King could still make good decisions and stay relaxed, to a degree, in dangerous, rushed or distracting circumstances. He went through the rest of the name, which was long, and he found several flaws, but the only one that was bad for a king was still an excess of trust, but Dathedr could, and in fact probably would, be more suspicious about people upon hearing the full tale of Orrin's treachery, and as a king he would be more alert, especially after learning that he was too trusting from his name.

All in all, it was a good name for a king to have, and he doubted many of the others were so suited.

_Yes... I shall suggest myself as King, if Arya is voted out by the Lords and ladies, which seems more than likely at the moment. I forced her into it, but I shall take over from her if need be. For the good of my race, this must be done._

During his period of self-inspection and analysis, Fiolr and Bellaen had separated. He began to follow Fiolr into the hall. Fiolr walked through an arch, into a room with vines growing through it, and Dathedr followed him in. He walked towards the door Fiolr exited the room through, still following, but a hand clasped his shoulder and he spun around.

Lord Cenat, of House Gretharin, stood before him. There was a serious look on his face, and he looked like he had something important to say.

"Come, Dathedr, I need to speak to you." The elf turned, heading back towards the gardens. Dathedr hesitated, not wanting to leave Fiolr to talk to whichever elf lord he wanted, then he followed Cenat. He was curious as to what he wanted to talk about, and Fiolr could wait.

They reached the centre of the large gardens, and Cenat turned around. I know this isn't the most private location, but no-one can sneak up here." Dathedr nodded, and gestured for Cenat to continue.

"Indarith just spoke to me. She appeared to be trying to convince me that we needed a new Queen, that Arya wasn't good enough, and that helping the humans would be disastrous. She then went on to ask if I agreed, and if I was considering options for a new Queen. I could see that she was trying to get my support for herself as the Queen, so I replied, 'I am not sure that we really need a new monarch, but I have a King in mind, yes,' and she seemed to get angry for a second, then she controlled herself, and said, 'I hope you make the right choice,' and walked off. Dathedr, when I said I had a king in mind, I meant you. You are the best choice, and you are definitely better than Indarith or Fiolr, who, it seems, is trying to gather support of his own. I saw him conversing with Wirthren a few days ago, and he seemed very serious, though I didn't give it much thought, and just now he was talking with Bellaen. Do you intend to take the throne, if Arya is voted down, as seems most likely at the moment? Because if you do, I shall support you." Dathedr was glad of Cenat's confidence in him, but he was surprised that both Indarith and Fiolr were trying to seize the throne.

_This really is getting serious! Two others want the throne, and are trying to gather support, indeed, they have been for days, while I have done nothing! I shall need to act fast if I am to be King._

"Cenat, I do intend to take the throne if I can. Thank you for telling me this and offering your support. I appreciate it." Cenat nodded.

"Then it would probably be a good idea to talk to the other lords, especially those that have not spoken to Fiolr or Indarith. They will be most easily convinced." Dathedr had realised that, but he nodded and complimented Cenat anyway. He wanted to keep the elf happy.

"A good idea, Cenat-vodhr. Now, I think I shall go and put it into practice." Cenat nodded and left, walking away into the hall with a word of farewell.

"Elrun ono," Dathedr said to the world on a whole, and then he turned around, heading into the hall, to dive into a quagmire of politics, persuasion and power that he was, perhaps, entering too late, as it had already been stirred up by two others before him. It would take all his skills to gain the support of eleven more elf Lords, as thirteen was the minimum number needed for a majority vote, and he already had himself and Cenat. He walked through the hall, searching for the elf Lords and Ladies.

Dathedr eventually found Lady Tirneln in a room that had a pond in it. A stream ran out of one end, and another ran in at the other. They both flowed through into other rooms. Lady Tirneln was kneeling down, talking to a fish, and it rose up to the surface. She stroked its scales, and then said, "Ganga," and the fish swam back to the depths of the pool.

Dathedr walked over to her, and she looked up and smiled.

"Greetings, Dathedr. What brings you here?" He sat down next to her, looking at the pond.

"Greetings, Tirneln. I wanted to talk to you, to ask your opinion on something." Tirneln had always been a friend of Islanzadi's, and he was confident that she would support Arya, so he decided to show his support of Arya, so she would agree with him and support him.

"What is it, Dathedr? I'm listening." Dathedr sighed, then spoke.

"I am concerned for Arya. You heard the Lords in that meeting, especially Fiolr, they think she in unfit to be queen any longer, and I fear that they may vote her out." Tirneln nodded, sadness on her face.

"Aye, I fear for her position as well, and she seems fated to lose it, due to the anger of the Lords and Ladies. I shall do my best to support her, as I trust you will as well"-Dathedr nodded at that-"but if she does lose the position..." Tirneln trailed off, seeming deep in thought. "If she does indeed lose the position, and I have to vote for a new ruler," she looked Dathedr in the eyes, "I would vote for you. You are suited for the position, and Arya trusts you." Dathedr raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise.

"Thank you for your confidence in me, Tirneln-vodhr. I shall not let you down." She nodded, turning back to the fish with a smile on her face.

Dathedr spent the rest of that day doing the same thing. By the time the sun set, he had spoken to twelve elf Lords and Ladies. Six of them had been convinced, but the others, including Wirthren and Bellaen, seemed indecisive about who to choose. It seemed that the elves, within their strongest stronghold, were divided, unsure of what to do, when they could not afford to be distracted.

Arya's lead was almost definitely reaching an end, many of the elves expressing anger at her decisions, but who would take over? The leadership of a race hung in the balance as three Lords and Ladies influenced the others, trying to gain power, two for their own gain, one for the race as a whole. But which would take the Throne if the Queen left?


	33. Chapter 33

**Replies to reviews:**

**Elemental Dragon Slayer: Glad you like it, and Orrin as a villain! I will keep posting until all sixty-one chapters are up here as well as on IF!**

**Brisingrrider: Thanks a lot! Yeah, it did seem to me that Orrin was getting more and more violent as Inheritance went on, so this is partially the result of that thought. More chapters coming!**

**Mattchew Inheritance: Thanks! More chapters on their way!**

**Googons: Well, an annoying head magician and five years of being frustrated as a Queen is bound to have some effects.**

**Ocadioan: Thanks for pointing that out, it's been out in now, and I hope the real chapter 17 answers a few questions.**

**: A few people on Inheritance Forums had problems with that chapter too, but it's more explained in the (real) chapter 17.**

**Chapter 33: Dragon.**

Zimar led the army, both on horse and on foot, along the road that led to Ilirea. The cavalry came first, as they would be fastest to react to any threat along the way. Clouds threatened to cover the sun, but the blue skies remained, as did the heat, and Zimar saw sunlight glinting off water, between the trees that lined the path, and he knew that they were running low on a few water supplies, so he turned off to the side, heading along a dirt road branching off the main one. The men followed him as he contacted the magician who was riding with the King.

_We are running low on water, so I am taking a detour for the men to refill their bottles at the river. Inform Orrin._ Zimar's tone was formal and strict, and the man answered hurriedly.

_Yes, my Lord._ Zimar withdrew and snorted. He wasn't a lord, but he liked the title nonetheless, and he wasn't going to correct the mistake.

He was getting nearer to the River, the Ramr, which was further than he had originally thought. He paused for a second as he heard a loud sound, as if a large animal was drinking by the side of the river. He continued cautiously down the path, the soldiers following. The noise kept getting louder, and nearer, and as they rounded a bend in the track, and crested a rise, Zimar saw the source of the sound, and stopped in his tracks.

Crouched on the banks of the river, staring at Zimar and the men behind him with anger in its eyes, was a large black dragon.

Zimar hurriedly contacted the magician again. _Tell Orrin that there's a dragon at the River, and ask him what to do._ He could sense panic in the magician as he relayed the message, then the answer.

_The King says to charge at it and frighten it, fight it off if you have to, he says he's having the Riders and dragons come and help, with orders to kill it if they can._ Zimar sighed. He had been afraid of that.

"Charge!"

Zimar spurred his horse forwards, as did the soldiers behind him. He drew his swords and they raised their spears. Zimar could tell that the horses were scared, but the men had been trained well, and they kept their steeds on track. They got nearer, the dragon raising its head. Its mouth opened, and it breathed fire, incinerating half of the first line of horses and men. Zimar's wards deflected the flames away from him, but his strength waned.

The dragon lunged forwards, following its fire up with a sweep of its tail, into all the horses. A large number of them were knocked to the ground, and as the scaled, spiked black club came for Zimar, he leapt off the horse, over the tail, landing hard and rolling to reduce the impact. The stallion took the blow in its ribcage, which was caved in, and dozens of soldiers and horses were killed as well. The dragon swept its tail back around, catching even more, as Zimar dived to the ground to avoid it. The men who were still alive tried to control their horses, but the animals panicked, and as the dragon reared up on its hind legs, they bolted, heading off in almost every direction, leaving Zimar to face it almost alone.

As it towered over him, spreading its wings, he raised his swords, hoping that the Riders would get there soon. Before he could search for them with his mind, the dragon unleashed a raging inferno, heading straight for him. The wards parted the flames, and he ran forwards, out of the torrent of fire. The dragon appeared surprised, then it dropped down onto its left leg, slashing out with its right. Zimar rolled backwards, but it slammed its left foot down right at him, now with its weight on its right foot. He launched himself to his left, barely avoiding the blow, and leapt towards its right leg, trying to stab down at the foot, but it reared up again, and the blunt side of one of its claws caught him in the chest, not injuring him, but knocking him back. Whether that was because of his wards or not, he didn't know, but in any case he fell on his back, before sustaining a withering blast of fire that set the leaves ablaze and lost him a lot of strength. He got up and ran out of the blast, to the front, only to find the dragon's mouth, flames extinguished, coming for him, ready to bite him in half.

He did the only thing he could; he jumped; one foot landed on the dragon's lower jaw and he used it to push himself up more. He reached the peak of the jump, and the dragon's nose slammed into his stomach. Zimar landed, winded, on its snout, and he got to his feet as the dragon roared in surprise and anger. He ran forwards, intending to stab it in the eyes, but it tossed up its massive head, sending Zimar flying. He saw that he would land heavily on the spikes along the dragon's neck, and his wards might drain him of energy, so he hurriedly cast a spell.

"Raehta!"

His body was pushed to the right, and he missed the spikes, sliding down the side of the dragon's neck. The jet-black scales were smooth and cold to the touch. Zimar fell off the neck, slipping to the side, and he landed on its left leg. Determined to do some damage before it threw him off, he plunged one of his blades into what for humans would be its forearm. The limb convulsed, and Zimar was sent flying. He was winded again as he landed, and he looked up to see the dragon bounding towards him on three legs. Some of the horsemen, having regained control of their mounts, charged, spears raised over their heads, past Zimar towards the dragon. They were incinerated in a blast of flames, which were then turned on Zimar as he tried to get his breath back. The drain from his wards didn't make it easier, but he stood, then he jumped out of the flames, battling both exhaustion and the dragon as it tried to step on him with its good foreleg, and he rolled out of the way. It then slashed at him with its bad leg, which he hadn't expected, and his wards blunted the blow, but they cost him a lot of energy, and he was still sent hurtling through the air.

Once again, he landed, but this time, he removed his wards. If he was hit again, he would either lose so much energy that he would be useless, or be killed outright. The result would be the same either way, so he released the wards. Quicker that way, he figured.

In front of him, the dragon was putting weight on its injured leg, testing it. Blood spurted out, but the dragon ignored it, on four legs again as it charged. Gore splattered the ground, but the dragon didn't pay it any attention. Zimar cursed. Dragons were made of tough stuff.

As Zimar attempted to get to his feet, arrows whistled over his head, aimed for the dragon. It stopped, rearing and burning the arrows as they came for it, but more still came. The infantry had finally caught up with the disorganised and now scattered cavalry, and their archers continued to fire at the dragon, which, still rearing, hopped back on its hind legs, burning the arrows as they came. But it seemed to realise that it couldn't breathe fire forever, and it spread its wings, flapped, and rose into the air, with a final roar at Zimar, soaring out of the range of the archers, but staying near, swooping towards a few of the cavalry. As the black dragon attacked them, a red dragon and a brown dragon appeared from the direction of the road, speeding towards the black one, as Zimar collapsed with exhaustion.

Murtagh was leaning against Thorn, in their cage, covered up by a large sheet. The cage was pulled by two dozen horses, and neither Murtagh nor Thorn could speak or make a noise, mentally or otherwise. He listened to the birds singing, glad that they were happy, but wishing he was a bit more inclined to be that way himself, for the sweetest birdsong could not cheer him, Thorn couldn't communicate with him, and he was shut out from the world, hidden, not just by a sheet and a cage, but by a shell of indifference, under which his true sadness lay, deep in his heart. It had set in more than before when Thorn had been banned from contacting him, and he couldn't shake it off, no matter how hard he tried, not without his partner. His grief was too great.

It came as a relief to him, then, when a distraction arrived, albeit in the form of Orrin. The King pulled off the sheet and handed him Zar'roc, which he was relieved about. He hadn't got it back since he had returned from Nausada's tomb. He remembered Orrin's reaction.

_He had landed in front of the King, Miremel coming down next to him. Orrin emerged, a grin on his face as he saw Murtagh._

_"Is Nausada dead?" The King was eager to know. Murtagh had nodded slowly, and Orrin's face lit up._

_"Where is her body?" There was glee in the king's eyes._

_"I don't know now, exactly. She could have been moved by your men, into one of the piles of dead." Murtagh didn't want to tell Orrin where she really was, and it was possible that the tomb had been broken into or something. Luckily, Orrin didn't push him for an answer._

_"Excellent, now, give me those swords, you two, and get back to the cages!" Orrin laughed, and the Riders gave him the weapons and trudged away through the night._

Bringing himself back to the present, Murtagh's pleasure evaporated as Orrin spoke.

"Our men have encountered a wild dragon by the river, and we need to drive it off. Go, fight it, try to kill it, and at the very least force it off and teach it a lesson!" He opened the door to the cage, and Murtagh mounted Thorn, strapping Zar'roc onto his belt. Miremel and Taiven emerged from another cage at Orrin's word, and Taiven was handed Deloi, her sword, and the two dragons, after Orrin let them speak again, joined minds so they could work together better and took to the air.

Murtagh was sickened by the task they had been given. The dragons were strong, noble, majestic creatures, and killing one was a vile act, but Thorn stretched out his mind to all of them.

_Remember, we do not have to kill it! Over the burning plains, Murtagh, Galbatorix made the same mistake. He told us to try to capture Eragon and Saphira; we tried, and we let them go. We can attack the dragon, and we have to drive it off, but we don't have to kill it._ Thorn's words were encouraging, and Murtagh could sense that Miremel and Taiven were relaxing, a bad thing in a fight, so he spoke.

_Still, driving off a wild dragon is easier said than done. Wild dragons are fiercer than bonded dragons, and prouder, especially the females. It will fight harder and be more dangerous than you're used to, so be careful._ They acknowledged his words, and turned their attentions ahead. Taiven gasped and pointed, but Thorn was already flapping hard in that direction, towards the gleaming black scales of a dragon. Thorn sniffed, searching for a scent.

_It's a female,_ he said to all of them, and Murtagh got a bit more nervous. It would be a hard fight. Miremel sped up, keeping pace with Thorn. Both dragons roared in unison, hurting Murtagh's ears, which, over time, had grown pointed, like an elf's. The black dragon roared in reply, pulling out of a dive towards some soldier, before wheeling around, a snarl on her face, heading for the red and brown ones. She flapped hard, heading upwards, before clasping her wings to the side and hurtling down towards Thorn. The dragon was smaller than him, around Miremel's size, but she equalled or bettered both of them in ferocity.

Thorn flipped over in mid-air, so his claws faced the other dragon as it dived down, just as Saphira had done in their second encounter. He prepared for it to grab his claws and grapple with him, as he would have done, but it tilted its tail, changing the angle of the dive to one a bit steeper. Thorn realised what it had done too late, and though he managed to raise his tail a bit, by folding his wings and beginning to head downwards, the black dragon grabbed it in her jaws, and it was still diving. Thorn yelped in surprise and pain as he was yanked down, and he unfurled his wings and flapped hard, trying to stop the dragon so Miremel could attack it, but it let go of his tail and swooped down, keeping up its speed and momentum as it dodged Miremel's dive, before turning and going for her. Thorn growled, picking up speed again as he flew to help Miremel. But the brown dragon didn't seem to need helping.

The two female dragons flew at each other, at top speed. Miremel was lower, but she flew straight and fast, and as the other dragon lunged, claws outstretched, she folded her wings and dived down, swinging her tail up to deliver a crushing blow to the wild dragon's face. It turned its head, instead getting a few gashes on its neck before it bashed the tail to the side, did a tight loop-the-loop, spinning at the top, before levelling off and diving down at the brown dragon. Miremel again was at a disadvantage, as she was open to the dragon's attacks and it could drive her to the ground if it wanted, but Thorn reached the black dragon halfway through its dive, and it spun down and to the side to avoid his claws. Miremel and Thorn rose to the same level and closed in with the dragon from different sides. It glanced from one to the other, unsure which to attack.

Taking advantage of its moment of indecisiveness, the two dragons roared in unison and flew towards the dragon. It charged too, heading for Miremel, who braced herself, as Thorn headed towards where they would collide, ready to attack from the side. But their anticipation was their undoing. Against both their expectations, it swerved and caught Thorn by surprise, and he only just dodged getting an eye clawed out as the dragon sent him reeling, grabbing him with its forelegs. He tumbled back, trying to break the grip and kick the dragon in the belly to throw it off, but it hung on, biting at Murtagh. He had been shaken about in the saddle, and he almost fell off whilst trying to avoid the teeth. Before he could recover and slash at the dragon's leg, to make it let go, the dragon disengaged, surprising them both again, and Thorn reacted slowly as a result, but soon they saw the reason.

The black dragon slashed out at Miremel, but the brown dragon rose above the claws, before crashing into its side with massive force. Thorn swooped down, gaining momentum and position, before quickly hurtling upwards, catching the dragon between himself and Miremel. Miremel had gashed it in the side, and its neck and leg were also bleeding, and Thorn's attack had scraped lines of blood along its chest, but it seemed as strong as ever as it kicked him with all four feet, throwing him off, before buffeting Miremel with its wings. She clung on, but it writhed and snaked its head back towards her, taking a chunk out of Miremel's wing membrane. The brown dragon roared in pain, snapping back at the wild dragon's head, but it dodged and swung its head around like a hammer into Miremel's side, doing the same with its tail, and Miremel was knocked off, but both Rider dragons recovered quickly as the black dragon backtracked in the air, bleeding heavily in several places.

In contrast, Miremel had a small scratch on the side of her tail, a large part of her wing membrane was missing, and she was bruised on her sides, but Taiven was healing her wounds. Thorn was worse off. His tail had a deep gash, but luckily it didn't impede him much, its claws had dug into his side when it grabbed him, and his belly had been torn badly by its four-legged kick. Murtagh hastily spoke the words of a spell that would completely heal him, using energy stored in the pommel of Zar'roc. The wild dragon didn't have that advantage, and the bonded dragons, now both fully healed, began to close in, one on either side again, but closer together this time.

The other dragon stayed still as they advanced, until they were quite close, when it roared and charged at Thorn, quickly spinning around in mid-air by folding one wing, and its tail crashed into him, but a second later it was blindsided by Miremel, who grabbed it's side. It reached around, grabbing Miremel's right hind leg, hauling her off and around, right into Thorn's way, halting both the Rider dragons in their tracks. They recovered almost immediately though, Thorn diving under Miremel and Miremel turning sharply. The black tail hit her right round the face, and Thorn roared, charging forwards, but the dragon was flying off, away from the Surdans and the Riders.

Murtagh would've been willing to leave it at that, but they hadn't exactly driven it off, as it landed on a small hill a mile away. Also, he was curious, and he wanted to see where the dragon lived. He could tell that Thorn felt the same.

_Let's follow, or Orrin will suspect,_ the red dragon said, and they agreed. The dragons began to fly, heading for where the glint of black scales could still be seem as the dragon entered a group of trees.

The Riders, on their dragons, walked through a large trail through the wood, marked with drops of blood. Through two trees, Murtagh caught a glimpse of scales of black, and they emerged into a large clearing.

The dragon was on its feet, a snarl on its face, but it was unwilling to face two again. However, as Murtagh looked around the clearing, which appeared to be nothing special, a normal clearing, just with the grass flattened and a few bones in one corner, it growled and stepped forwards with heightened aggression, and Murtagh spotted the reason for its protectiveness.

An egg, a deep, rich shade of cyan, sat behind the dragon, on a small pile of leaves.

The dragon still advanced, and Murtagh raised his palm, Gewedy Insignia showing, and spoke in the ancient language. "We no longer mean you any harm! We want to help you!" It stopped, understanding and confusion on its face. Murtagh began to speak again, and it growled, but did nothing, as Murtagh cast a spell, relying on Zar'roc's energy supplies, to heal all the dragon's injuries. It roared as its wounds itched, starting to run at them, but it stopped as the blood flowing out of its wounds stopped coming, and it sniffed at its leg, and its neck. The wounds had been healed, new skin growing again, and it looked at Murtagh, as a mind touched his, speaking without words, just conveying one emotion.

Gratitude.


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34: Riders on the Storm.**

Storm clouds raged across the sky. Winds tore at trees, rain splattered the earth. Lightning forked down through the air, striking the tall trees, which split and collapsed. The elements seemed to be against anything other than themselves moving, and for the most part, their efforts were successful. Bears stayed in their caves, wolves in theirs, Rabbits stayed in their burrows, foxes in their earths, the birds stuck to their nests and the only things moving were the earthworms. Aside, that is, from the greatest creatures of all.

Two dragons laboured on through the wind and the rain. Their scales, green and blue, were running with water, dripping off their claws and falling to the forest below. However, they were still warm, as were their Riders and the Eldunari they carried with them, due to the spells the Riders had cast. The Riders themselves were dry now, due to another spell that kept the rain off. The winds, however, could not be stopped with any spell. Lightning flashed again, nearer to the Dragons this time. The green one veered away from it for a second, flinching, then he redoubled his efforts and caught up to the blue dragon. Despite their exhaustion, for they had eaten little, they flew on as strongly as ever, the Eldunari providing energy for them. It was not an inexhaustible supply, and some of the smaller ones were running out of energy from all the spells, but a great deal of energy still remained, and the dragons kept flying into the storm, the same as they had been doing for the last four days. They had made approximately one-and-a-half day's progress since the storm began, losing two and a half days. But there was a break in the clouds ahead, and sunlight shone through.

Eragon contacted the Eldunari, showing them what he saw. _How long should it be until we are out of the storm, Glaedr-elda, Umaroth-elda?_

They considered, then Umaroth said, _A few hours at this pace, then the wind should be on our side. We have been flying in the direction the storm has been going, but within the storm, the air is always turbulent, throwing us around everywhere. At the front, however, it advances ahead, the first sign of the change in weather. If we can get out of the storm, as indeed we will, we can ride the storm front. It will both make the going much easier and much faster, despite that, however, we won't be able to make up much time, if any. We can expect to arrive at Ilirea two days after Gil'ead's troops, with the perfect conditions. _Eragon sighed. The sooner they got there, the better, but it wasn't looking promising.

_Thank you for your advice, Umaroth-elda._ He extended his mind to Arya and Firnen, to tell them.

_Arya, I spoke to Umaroth. He said that we should reach the edge of the storm in around three hours, and then we can go with the wind and let it carry us to Alagaesia. We should arrive at Ilirea a couple of days after Nausada's soldiers, Jormundur's soldiers now, I suppose._ He could sense Arya's frustration that they would be too late, but he could also tell that she was happy that the wind would soon be on their side, so they would not lose any more time in the storm.

_That's good, we can save the energy of the Eldunari for the actual battle, rather than all the spells to keep us warm and to keep the lightning away. We need to get to Ilirea as soon as possible, and with a lot of energy._ Firnen seemed to increase his speed, heading for the light up ahead, and Saphira flapped harder as well, to keep up. The storm blew them around, but they pressed on. The hopes of a continent rested on their shoulders, and they were determined not to fail.

Two and a half hours later, the rain began to ease off a bit, and then they soared out of the cloud, the sun in their faces and the wind at their backs. The air ahead of the storm was cold, but not too cold, so Eragon and Arya released the spells to keep them warm. They were no longer necessary.

The speed of the dragons increased. Now, they were ahead of the storm, and the wind was pushing them onwards. The storm front was behind them, and they were riding the winds, rushing on ahead of the clouds, faster than the force of nature could push the grey clouds, assisted by the force of nature itself. They were going faster than they had ever been without diving, and even the dragons were a bit shocked at their pace.

Eragon laughed. The storm was behind them, helping them. They had beaten it, they had endured it, and they were heading off to help their friends at a speed far faster than even before. His pride that they had managed to get through the storm, however, was short-lived. Glaedr spoke to them all.

_It is a great accomplishment to fly through a storm like that, yes, but you have a long way to go. Ilirea is still far, you are yet to reach Alagaesia, in fact, so it might be best to save your celebrations until we actually reach our destination, Eragon. I do not seek to belittle you, for it is no mean feat, but in this case, Rhunon's words are wrong. The journey matters not, only the place you reach, or as Saphira put it, victory is victory and dead is dead, no matter how it is achieved. It would not matter if Eragon had beaten Galbatorix and Shruikan both to death with a rusty spoon or it had been Brisingr through the heart for both of them. In this case, concentrate on reaching Ilirea, not what you do to get there. You need to retain your focus, and concentrate upon what is necessary!_ Glaedr's words restored Eragon's desire to reach the Capital, driving away his other thoughts. He nodded in acknowledgement, as did the others.

_I understand, Ebrithil. Thank you._ Glaedr acknowledged Eragon, and retreated from the contact, but then Eragon spoke again.

_Master, do you know that Saphira and Firnen are mates? Or did they not tell you?_ Glaedr chuckled as he replied.

_Eragon, though I cannot see anymore, I can feel people's minds around me, and I can sense where they are in relation to one another, and I can sense their feelings, just as you can with your mind. Therefore, I knew of Saphira and Firnen, and I know of the egg, although you decided not to tell me. I also know about you and Arya. You are good for one another._ Eragon was pleased at the dragon's words. To know his Master's opinion was the main reason for him asking Glaedr about the dragons.

_Thank you, Ebrithil._ Eragon said, respect in his voice.

_You are welcome, _Eragon, came Glaedr's voice, and once again the dragon retreated from his mind, leaving it to only Eragon, Saphira, and Arya. It wasn't too crowded to Eragon, as it was filled with the two beings he loved most in the world. A warm pleasure came from Saphira as he thought that, and love flowed across his bond with Arya. He looked to his right, and he saw her looking at him from Firnen's back, love in her eyes. He stared at her, and she at him, until a large gust of wind shook the dragons. They increased their pace, staying ahead of the storm, swept forwards by the wind, flying hard for Alagaesia, in more ways than one.

It was night. They had outflown the storm, the wind was still there, only weaker than before, and though the dragons had wanted to hunt, Umaroth had insisted otherwise.

_There is not any time to spare, and we can provide you with energy for now. Some of our reserves may be running low, but a large amount of us have a lot of energy left. We shall be fine, just concentrate on flying, not your hunger. You have the will to keep flying, so control yourselves and keep flying. It is your duty to the land._ The dragon had said, and Saphira and Firnen flew on.

Now, however, the stresses on their limbs were taking their toll. Saphira's muscles ached, and while she had the energy to keep going, she was finding it harder and harder. She wasn't meant to go for four days of continuous flight, no matter how much energy she had. Firnen didn't fare much better, worse if anything, so Eragon contacted Umaroth and Glaedr again, reaching out his mind to the space behind his head where the Eldunari he had taken with him hovered, unseen, held in place by the strange spell that even Glaedr hadn't been able to fully understand. Eragon respected the old hermit that Umaroth had said invented the spell a lot, for it was fiendishly complicated. He told them of the problem, and the two of them withdrew from his mind. Eragon got the impression from their feelings that they were at a disagreement before they withdrew. After a while, Glaedr contacted him.

_Although Umaroth insists that you keep going, while you are capable now, I am sure that your aches, Saphira, will turn out to be a large disadvantage when we reach the Empire's soldiers and do battle with King Orrin. He says that if you got there first, nearly dead or not, the morale boost to the troops could turn the tide, but I disagree. Seeing two weakened and exhausted riders getting killed will do nothing good for the morale, or the odds. It developed into an argument about several possible scenarios, and I won, so it has been decided that you shall stop for the night, and rest._ There was pride in his voice, for a successful debate against a Lead Rider's Dragon was surely no mean feat, and Eragon was grateful to Glaedr, for Saphira's sake. She was not in a good condition, and she needed to rest. She and Firnen began to descend, gilding over the forest, searching for somewhere to land.

Eventually, a clearing was spotted, and the two dragons swooped down, lay down, and fell asleep almost immediately. Their Riders, also exhausted, curled up between them, not bothering with a fire when there was, as Saphira often pointed out, fire in the bellies of both the dragons, that could keep their riders warm instead.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35: Reinforcements and Plans.**

Orrin stood outside his tent, looking out across the sea of tents outside Ilirea. His army had taken just five days to reach the city, and now the siege engines that had been sent north from the border towards the city in anticipation were about to join them. He could see them now, advancing from the south, their orange uniforms flashing as the siege towers, battering rams, catapults and ballistae moved towards the camp. They would have travelled very slowly in between the cities if the heavy machines had been with them, so Orrin had made them a separate force and had them advance to meet them outside the capital, taking lighter weapons of war instead. But they would be unable to take the biggest and best defended city in the Empire without some serious power at their disposal, hence the siege engines.

They were heading for an area that had been left for them at the back of the camp. The cavalry occupied the right hand side of the front section, and the infantry the left. Orrin's tent, of course, was behind all of them, and to the far left were the Riders, behind a hill, in the cages that had been brought, with their dragons as well. They had done their job quickly at Dras-Leona, and Orrin was confident that they had not been found out, so he had decided that they wouldn't take part in the attack on Ilirea. The more magicians in the city, the more risk of being discovered, and the capital had the most magicians of all.

_And the most powerful, especially that Saren. He might be able to beat Zimar, with all I've heard of him... We shall have to be careful. Their forces will be prepared. We must bombard for as long as we can, and we must break in as fast as possible... As usual, Zimar shall lead the attack, with two other magicians at least, in fact, four. Once the gate is broken, they shall lead our cavalry charge, in case Saren or some other magicians try to stop them, as will probably happen. They should be prepared to fight, and to fight hard. This shall be the biggest battle yet. _Orrin had made his decisions on the strategy. He turned, heading for his commanders.

The large tent for the meetings was nearer the centre of the camp. Orrin got onto his horse and rode through, his personal guard of ten magicians, that he had assigned after Dras-Leona, following on their own steeds.

He arrived, dismounted, and strode into the tent, where a large map was spread around a table. Zimar and Orrin's general, Rithis, stood around the table, pointing at the map, which showed Ilirea, and the area around it. They bowed as Orrin walked in, then they continued when Orrin gestured. Zimar moved a few models of the catapults a way away from the city, spread out. He did the same with the ballistae. Then, he moved a lot of small, carved soldiers up next to the walls, at different positions, next to the guardtowers, followed by the siege towers, that the men could climb up, and they could shoot arrows from at the soldiers on the walls. They were a lot more stable than ladders, and it would take a dragon to topple them. He moved the remainder of the infantry, which was actually the majority of the force, up to the gate, where the massive battering ram was. The cavalry pieces stayed a bit back from the walls, ready to charge through the gate.

"This is how I think we should arrange the troops," said Zimar, gesturing at the map. "Our men with the siege towers, once they get up, can capture the walls, and, if possible, work around to the gate, to open it, if the battering ram hasn't already. The troops around the ram can tell the cavalry when they think the gate will break, and the cavalry, the moment the gate is broken open, charge through the infantry soldiers, who separate to let them past. From there, the cavalry charge through the streets, this way," Zimar drew an arrow in pencil, heading into the city, "Then as we planned before, they split up, charging down the four roads." The arrow stopped, and four more sprouted from the same place, heading down from the crossroads just outside the castle, where the first arrow had stopped. "Then, they reach the wall, riding down the road that circles around the inside of the wall." Each arrow turned upon reaching the wall, circling around clockwise, and then stopped. "Then, they return to the gate." Zimar stopped drawing the arrows and looked at Orrin, who nodded, accepting the plan. Zimar nodded to Rithis, who took the pencil, and, with a glance at the King, began to draw his own arrows.

"After the infantry have split to let the cavalry through, they shall advance through the gate themselves. They move in in force, spreading out, some following the cavalry towards the castle. When the cavalry split up, if there are enough, of course, they will advance forwards, up this street, towards the castle, with the biggest battering ram." He drew arrows heading into the city, then a large arrow from the battering ram up the main street, followed by arrows coming from the soldiers, heading in the same way. "They break into the castle, and kill all inside. The other troops shall divide up, leaving those from the siege towers to capture the walls and the roads around them," Arrows came from the towers, into the guardtowers, along the walls, and then down to the bottoms of the guardtowers. "The other troops spread out through the roads, away from the gate. They go through the whole city, killing any resistance, and if they meet any large groups of enemies, they shall call for reinforcements." Arrows spread through the city. "Two other large groups of troops shall take the smaller battering rams up these main roads," and arrows went up a couple of the streets, "to help the main ram break down the castle door." The arrows joined up with the arrows that had headed straight from the entrance. "This will also help if the way directly to the castle is blocked, or too well defended." Rithis put down the pencil, looking to Orrin for approval, which he got. The King was pleased. His generals thought like he did.

"Good. Zimar, you and four other magicians shall lead the charge into the city. If the rumours are true, Saren is in charge. You, Zimar, shall have to stop him and any magicians with him." Zimar frowned, narrowing his eyes.

"Six more magicians would be better, I think. Saren is supposed to be very powerful, and I doubt he'll be going out alone." Orrin considered the request, then nodded.

"Very well. Six it is then." Zimar nodded, grateful. "Go and fetch the Riders. I want to talk to them." Zimar nodded again, and walked out of the tent.

Murtagh was depressed.

He was curled up in the cage, not trying to talk in any way, even to Thorn, and eating little. After they had been stopped from communicating again, after they had fought the dragon, he had been that way. Taiven couldn't tell what he was doing. Probably mourning, imagining what could have been or thinking up a thousand ways for Orrin to die. Taiven had kept herself occupied with the latter, but her inspiration had stopped after she reached three hundred and seventy one. She doubted he was doing the same, though, he seemed too... unhappy, rather than angry, to be thinking of revenge, although it would definitely cross his mind, he just wasn't concentrating on it. Taiven wanted to comfort him, but he had Thorn for that. The red dragon was lying next to him, wings folded, curling his body around his Rider, trying to reassure him, without words, as they still couldn't communicate. Thorn's efforts, however, appeared to have little effect, Murtagh stayed as he was, still, unmoving.

Taiven sighed, then turned and crawled under Miremel's wing. She couldn't understand Murtagh's pain, not fully. She had never escaped imprisonment, found freedom, and then had it snatched away again. She had never lost a loved one, and she had definitely never been forced to kill a loved one either. She had, all things considered, had a perfect life. Something bad, she realised, had been bound to happen at some point. But it didn't have to be _this _bad.

She moved closer to Miremel, feeling the heat coming off the brown scales. She sensed Miremel's pleasure through the bond that they always shared, as she wrapped her tail around Taiven as well. Taiven smiled-a rare occurrence now, after Orrin.

Suddenly, a voice came from outside the cage. It was a voice Taiven knew, and hated.

"Well well well, a couple of dragons and Riders! Who would have thought that the all-powerful protectors of the land would be in such a state? The King wants you, scum, and he wants you now. Get moving!" The door of the cage swung open. Miremel snarled, Taiven stood, and Zimar, who was standing in the doorway, smirked. "Get moving!"

She strode over to the cage door as Zimar opened Murtagh's. Murtagh stood up stiffly, and Taiven could see that he had been crying, his eyes red and puffy. Miremel went to follow Taiven out of the door, but Zimar hastily slammed it.

"Riders, not dragons. Follow. And by the way, you can talk now, but only amongst yourselves, or to me or the King." Orrin had told them that Zimar could say when they had a right to speak now, so Taiven immediately melded her mind with Miremel's. They delighted at being joined together fully again, and Murtagh smiled a bit as well, so he must have contacted Thorn too. The Riders looked at their dragons, then followed the magician, slowly.

He glanced around at them, and barked, "Faster!" They picked up their pace, heading towards the camp. Zimar had mounted a horse, which he sped up to a fast trot, laughing as he saw the Riders running after him, and he increased his speed to a gallop, still laughing at them. His laugh evaporated, however, when Murtagh sprinted ahead with the speed of an elf, catching up with the horse in seconds. Taiven was astounded by his speed, and so, it seemed, was Zimar, so much so that he stopped the horse and stared at Murtagh, who had stopped just behind him. The pause let Taiven catch up, as Zimar looked warily at Murtagh, then carried on riding, slower now, heading for the centre of the camp.

Zimar got off his horse and led them into a tent. There were ten men, all magicians, guarding it, but they let Zimar and the Riders through without question. The King was there, talking to his general, who Taiven recognised as Rithis. A map was laid on the table, arrows heading through the streets and models of soldiers positioned around it. She realised that they were planning the attack.

Zimar walked forwards and bowed to Orrin. "Your Majesty, they are here." Orrin nodded, then turned back to Rithis and continued talking.

"...Once Ilirea is taken, we shall have to do something about the attack from the men of Gil'ead. It would currently appear that we should defend the city, though that may depend on the state it is left in after our assault. We may be forced to attack them in the open if they could get into the city easily, but I would rather avoid that. Defending is easier than an all-out battle." Rithis nodded in agreement.

"Yes, my King. We can put the cavalry on the wall with bows if we are defending, that will be a more useful task for them than just staying still somewhere else." Orrin acknowledged him with a tilt of his head.

"We can worry about that after we have won the city. For now, prepare the troops. We attack at sunrise, and I want them in position before then." Rithis nodded and exited the tent.

The King turned to the Riders. "You shall not be in this battle. As you were not seen by any enemies that you did not kill, they won't yet know of you. We should try to keep this advantage, and magicians will be quicker to see you in the capital, so you shall stay, and listen to the sounds of the soldiers of the Empire, those that you supported, screaming in horror and pain as the city falls!" Orrin smirked, not a good look.

_Then again,_ Taiven thought, _when does he ever look good?_

"Unless, of course, your men are doing the screaming, Orrin, "said Murtagh, calmly. Orrin shot him an angry glare, and slapped him. Murtagh stood there and took the blow, not caring for his own well-being anymore.

"Do not talk to me in that way again, do you hear?" The king was furious, and he let it show for once. Murtagh kept his cool though, looking him in the eyes.

"In what way, Orrin? In an honest way, speaking the truth? Very well, I shall just keep lying to you then." Orrin kicked him in the groin, and Murtagh doubled over, whereupon Orrin kneed him in the face. Murtagh stood again, spoke a few words to heal his nose, which was bleeding, and stared at Orrin again, no reaction on his face.

"Murtagh, you shall speak nothing but the truth when speaking to me, do you understand?" Murtagh nodded, his expression unchanging.

The King looked at him, then Taiven, and then he spat in Murtagh's face.

Again, there was no reaction. Orrin glared, then said, "You shall now return to your cages. Zimar, escort them." Murtagh turned, walking out. Taiven hurried to keep up as Zimar mounted his horse.

"Murtagh, what's wrong with you? You seem... Distant." He turned to her, sorrow in her eyes.

"Grief, hate, and a lack of hope." He continued walking, leaving her standing still, suddenly losing hope as well. If someone so much stronger, wiser, and more experienced than her had sunk into despair, what chance was there for her?

_Taiven, there is always hope. Hope is there. It is constant, and even when it looks like there is no hope, there is. There once was almost no hope for the Varden, yet they fought on as hard as they could, and Eragon and Saphira came and saved a capital from destruction. Take heart, for that may well happen again. So, even when all seems lost, walk on, with hope in your heart, and remember, Taiven, that you'll never walk alone, for I shall always be there for you._ Miremel's words rang true, and Taiven accepted them, sending thanks to her dragon.

_How did you think that up so fast?_ She asked Miremel, curious.

_Thorn and I were working on that ever since you left. He asked for my help to try to bring Murtagh out of his melancholy, so it wasn't all just what came into my head at that moment. _A bit of embarrassment slipped from Miremel's mind.

_Well, it was brilliant, and it has set my mind at ease. Thank you, Miremel._

_It was my pleasure, little one._


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36: Preparing for the Assault.**

Ilirea, the capital. All remnants of the former black monstrosity that had topped the central hill were gone, and in its place was a towering castle of marble, the sun gleaming off it. The six elegant elf towers, left from before Galbatorix's reign, had been rebuilt where necessary, fixed where not, pointed up to the sky, towards the sun. On the walls and in the streets of the city, soldiers marched, helmets shining, an impressive display of strength, but they would all occasionally glance fearfully out of the city at an even greater one.

The camp outside Ilirea was huge. There were probably more than twice as many soldiers there as there were in the city, and the people inside, it was easy to see, had little hope. Even in the castle, the best defended place in the city, possibly the empire, faces were strained, eyes were worried. All of them.

Apart from one.

Even as he gazed out towards the enemy army from the top of the castle, Saren remained calm. He accepted death as a possibility, and he wasn't afraid. He knew his duty and he did it, with, of course, the odd sarcastic remark, or everything would just be boring. It was for that reason too that he drank sometimes. Just to break the monotone of the daily work. However, since the news of the war, he had been as sober as anything, summoning troops from Bullridge, talking to the army from Gil'ead, and in general organising the defence of the city. While the men from Bullridge had arrived earlier that day, it would be three days until Gil'ead's men reached them, and his plans for the defence had changed drastically once he had seen the enemy reinforcements with all their heavy equipment for taking the city coming towards their camp from the south. The additional troops were fast approaching the camp.

Originally, he had planned for a siege. With only a few light battering rams it would take a while to break into the city, so Saren had planned to just put all his men, with bows, on the walls and around the gate. Many of the enemy would be killed, and if it became apparent that the gate would break, half their men would drop their bows, pick up sword and shield, and stay behind the gate, to kill the soldiers when they broke through. It had been a good plan, but the siege engines changed everything.

Now, as the Surdans would definitely break through, Saren would need to change his strategy.

_Now, the objective is not to hold them off, for that is impossible, we must simply kill as many as possible, and make it easier for the Empire's soldiers to get in once we fall, for fall we will._

He had already come up with a plan for the gate, one that would do both of those things. The rest of the city, however, would be harder.

_There has to be a force inside the gate, to try to hold off the invaders. If they're infantry near there, cavalry will be best, and some horsemen should be there anyway. Myself and five magicians shall lead the cavalry, to try to kill their leader. If that is not possible, a retreat along the main road would be a good idea, with spearmen hiding in the adjacent roads. They can attack from the sides, giving us some time to regroup and set up a few traps along the way, traps to kill and delay the soldiers._ Ideas immediately sprang to mind. _Push blocks of stone into their path and have soldiers shoot at them at the same time. Throw boulders off roofs... The list goes on. I shall have someone find me the boulders and stuff. Perhaps we would need to destroy something to get them..._

Suddenly, he had a brainwave. He thought it through, and it had its flaws. _Someone will have to weaken it first, I'm not strong enough on my own..._ Saren headed off the battlements, down the spiral staircase, to give the orders to the second-in-command of the magicians, Atheris. He had a lot to do before the inevitable attack.

Roran's troops stopped, ready to pitch their tents for the night. The army was footsore, having walked for seven days consecutively, but they knew they could not rest for a single day. The capital was in danger, and they had to save it. In fact, thought Roran, speaking of the capital...

He quickly rode Snowfire across to Jormundur. He wasn't King yet, as he hadn't been crowned, but Roran saluted anyway as he rode up. "Hail, Your Majesty!" Jormundur turned to Roran, with both an annoyed look and a grin on his face.

"Hail, Lord Roran Stronghammer of Palancar Valley! Seriously though, stop calling me that, or you'll be back to plain old Roran!" The two men laughed, then turned to watch the Nighthawks assemble the old command pavilion, accompanied by much muttering, grumbling and cursing. Four of them went to fetch the mirror, the desk, the small chairs and the chair that was more like a throne for Jormundur. Roran looked at the Nighthawks, and a question sprung to mind. He turned to Jormundur.

"What are they called now?" Jormundur frowned, puzzled, so Roran elaborated. "The Nighthawks, I mean. Since "Lady Nightstalker" is dead. The "Jormundurhawks" doesn't have the same ring to it. Also, it sound ridiculous." Jormundur laughed.

"That it does." He considered for a second, then said, "I think they'll keep being the Nighthawks, in honour of her memory." Roran nodded, understanding.

Once the tent was up, Jormundur and Roran had one of the Nighthawks scry the magician, Saren, who was in command at Ilirea. The spell was cast, and the Nighthawk left the tent.

The mirror revealed Saren, in a room that appeared to be some sort of office. A man, who was older than Saren, with bits of grey in his hair, stood behind a desk. Saren was speaking.

"...Don't care about what they think, Atheris, they won't complain if it saves their lives. Now go, and prepare the selected buildings. Move the people out. I want it done. Now!" Atheris, the grey-haired man, walked out of the room with a nod. Saren turned and spotted the two men in the mirror. He bowed, low, then began to give a report on his plans.

"Greetings, my lords. King Orrin has arrived outside the city." He would have said more, but Roran made a comment.

"Has he decided to send Royal Greetings yet? That's what happened last time he was outside with an army, trying to attack the city! Remember that, Jormundur?" The King laughed.

"Remember it I do. That was when he tried to kill you, if I recall correctly. We really should have predicted this at that point, shouldn't we, I mean, it was a clue as to his intentions to say the least!" Roran laughed too, and then they turned back to Saren, who raised an eyebrow.

"In answer to your question, no messenger has been sent, and we do not intend to send one ourselves. It would be a waste of a man. Should I continue with my report now?" They nodded, so he went on. "Orrin has received reinforcements, heading up from the south, and they have brought siege engines. We cannot hope to defeat him now, so I have made plans to simply kill as many as possible. Rather than trying to defend the city, which would be hopeless, as they have more than twice our troops. We shall try, also, to make the city easier for you to capture as well when you reach here. Do you agree?" Jormundur glanced at Roran, who spoke first.

"Do you think it is the right plan? Personally, I see few other available options." Roran said, looking at the King to be, who nodded.

"Aye, I too see few other choices, as much as I dislike the fact that there is little hope for the city. Saren, I agree with your plan. Go ahead with it, do not let it be said that Ilirea was lost without a fight, let it be said that they fought to the death, every last one of them, and that they fought on in such a way in order to bring a chance of peace and happiness for others, rather than for any chance of life for themselves. Let them show their honour, let them show their courage, and let them show that no man under me as King shall die without a good fight! Go now, Saren, and see that this happens!" Jormundur's speech increased in tempo and volume as he went on, speaking confidently, smoothly, and sadly, and Roran could tell that he was thinking of the men that he had chosen to die, but he knew that Jormundur would not hesitate in his duty. He never did, no matter the consequences, which was why he had been the second-in-command. His quick decisions and his self-assurance had gained him everyone's support and confidence, and even Saren seemed motivated by the speech, even though it did not show in his voice as he replied.

"Thank you, Jormundur. I shall inform the troops." He bowed deeply, then he left the room. Roran called for the Nighthawk to end the spell, and the mirror went back to reflecting the inside of the tent. Roran sighed.

"It looks like nowhere is safe anymore." Jormundur nodded slowly.

"Aye, that it does. Where are Eragon and Arya?" Roran had had them scried earlier, so he replied.

"They encountered a storm, which set them back a couple of days. Now, they should arrive at Ilirea two days after us. We shall have time to plan." Jormundur snorted.

"If Orrin decides to give us that time, Roran. What if he attacks first, with his Riders, when we have only one?"

Saren had spoken to Atheris again, and he had passed on Jormundur's message to the troops. Now, it was night, nearly midnight, but Saren was restless. There was an army out there, and he found it difficult to relax when he knew his enemies were near, but he didn't know what they were doing.

_Probably sleeping, as I should be,_ he had thought, but he had still found it hard to rest, so he had ascended to the battlements again, to see what he could see. The cool night breeze was refreshing, but the blackness revealed none of its secrets as he gazed ahead, so he whispered a simple spell that had been very useful to him before.

"Garjzla, kausta."

Light, come.

All the light, however dim, came to his eyes, and only his eyes, with extra strength. The spell took a large toll, but he could see as plain as daylight. He gazed towards the enemy camp, shocked to see movement, and more than just one or two scouting patrols. The entire army was moving into attack positions.

Saren released the spell, and the light faded to darkness again as he ran down to alert everyone. He woke Atheris with his mind, to save time.

_Wake the men! Alert the archers on the walls! Prepare! The enemy shall attack at dawn._


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37: The Beginning.**

Saren sat on his horse, five more magicians behind him, with around four thousand horsemen, all that there were in the city, and a couple of thousand men on foot were to the side, to back up the cavalry when they charged. The archers on the walls and in the towers were firing rapidly at the masses down below, and at the siege towers that were slowly getting closer to the city, troops both at the top and surrounding the bottom of the massive wooden structures. To try and take them down, flaming arrows were fired at them, but the flames always refused to catch. Wards, Saren presumed.

There were yells of pain, and war cries, coming from the other side of the gate, as the battering ram hit it again and again. It shook, vibrating on its hinges, and Saren could tell it would give; sooner, not later. He had planned, though. The gate would fall on his own terms.

It shook again, more than ever before, and he could tell it was weakening.

"Be ready!" He called to the men up at the top of the gate that he had selected for the task. They nodded, and readied themselves. Saren raised his spear in preparation, and the soldiers behind him did likewise. They knew what they had to do, and their faces were grim. A thud came from the gate, along with more shaking. Saren could tell that another couple of blows would break it, so immediately after he heard the sound, he yelled "Now!" to the men at the top. Quickly, they pulled at the weakest links in the defence of the city with large iron crowbars. One side snapped off, then the other, and Saren reached for the magic.

"Fram!" He directed the spell only at the very top of the massive gate, knowing that by the principals of leverage it would be easier then, and he would waste less energy. The men had broken off the hinges at the top of the gates, on either side, and Saren's spell took a large toll, but it managed to force the massive gates forwards enough for him to be sure they would fall, and he released the magic. The gates fell outwards with a crash, crushing thousands of men on the other side, along with the massive battering ram. The collapse of the structure holding it, coupled with the fact that it had been swinging towards the gate at that point, meant that the battering ram was in part propping the gate up, though only on one side. The gate had come to rest at an angle, leaving precious little space to charge through, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and Saren charged through the gap first. It was only big enough for two horses abreast to come through comfortably, but Saren yelled, heading for the soldiers advancing towards the gap in the gate. They had, he guessed, been pressed right up to the gate as it was assaulted, but ran back as it began to fall, giving him and his men the space to advance into. He plunged his spear into a throat, and his horse reared, staving the men off with its hooves, as he speared another man in the chest and his men charged past him in greater and greater numbers. Some pressed forwards, pushing the men back, Saren among them. The others were grouping behind them, ready for a big charge, but Saren and the others were in their way.

"Back! To the right!" Saren called to the men who were with him, angling his horse more to the right, blocking blows with the shield in his left arm and not trying to retaliate with his spear as he normally would. The men began to fall back, towards the wall, and Orrin's soldiers cheered, attempting to come round and circle them, and succeeding, it must have seemed to them, as the small group of horsemen with Saren were surrounded, pressed against the wall.

Suddenly, there was a call from the side, and hundreds of cavalry charged from where they had been gathering, next to the gap where the gate had been, and more were pouring out of the gate and joining the attack all the time. They penetrated deeply and quickly through the ranks of the enemy, who fell back, stunned. Saren and those around him surged forwards as well, breaking out of the circle and driving the soldiers away from the gate. The men that had surrounded them were killed, and they pressed on with the others.

Suddenly, as if at an order, all the soldiers grouped close together, raising their shields, backing off, and forming a wall of men and armour. Saren glanced around, surprised that they had disengaged, when it was obvious that they were more numerous and could probably win the fight anyway, especially when the infantry that had been on the other side of the gate came around as well, but then he saw why.

Quite a distance away, but getting closer, was an even surer way of killing all of them. A massive amount of enemy horsemen were charging towards the men of the city. Saren cursed vividly, turning his horse around. They couldn't hope to beat them, so he would let the tight entrance slow them down and bring forwards his own infantry. He headed towards the narrow gap that was all that there was of the gate. "Back to the city! Through the gate!"

He was the only one facing the right direction at the time, and while the others cursed, struggling to turn their horses within the mass of troops. He was the first to reach and pass through the gap, quickly followed by the rest. Many of the cavalry had not yet exited the city, due to the small gap, and they backed off as the others slowly advanced through the bottleneck. Saren went to the side to let them pass, signalling the entering cavalry to re-join the other group. He noted that the magicians were all unharmed.

Once the last hundred or so men were almost in, Saren could see the enemy cavalry nearing. He quickly signalled to the infantry to come nearer to the entrance, on either side, and a thousand men came to the right of the gap, with another thousand to the left. The cavalry continued to enter, and barely ten seconds after the last one got in, the Surdan horsemen reached the bottleneck.

Two men on horseback reached the entrance first, rushed through, and were forced to prance backwards-the horses, not the men-by the spears of the soldiers closest to the entrance. While two horses could fit into the gap, three men could stand in their way and fight them, giving the defenders an advantage over cavalry, but one of the men, who blocked two spear thrusts with one sword and lashed out with another, called to bring in the infantry. A suspicion as to who it was entered Saren's mind, but he waved it away. He needed to concentrate. The cavalry retreated, but not their leader. He backed off, still fighting, and as more of the defenders came on with spears raised, he raised his hand, and barked, "Jierda!" The spears all snapped, and he lunged forwards, killing three men, before the rest drew their swords as his infantry swarmed past him. Saren looked at where the men had been, and a bit of fear entered his mind as he realised who it was.

_Zimar._

Before he let himself dwell on the thought, he realised that though his infantry were holding theirs off, they were less in number, and they would still be less even with the cavalry as well. Saren decided that the cavalry would be more useful later, against a lesser foe, one depleted by the traps he had had set up on the route to the castle.

"Cavalry! Around! Back to the castle!" They turned again, more organised this time, and retreated down the main street. Saren, now at the rear of the column of men, turned as well, but he glanced back as he did so, to see that Zimar had emerged at the head again, and had in fact broken through, along with other soldiers, and his own troops had been split into two roughly even groups on either side of the gateway again. The other soldiers cleared the way around the entrance for more to come in, and come in they did, advancing around and trying to surround the soldiers of the city. Zimar, still the only mounted Surdan to have entered the city, stood alone on his horse in front of the fighting and stared at the backs of Saren's cavalry. Saren caught his gaze and stared back, two generals, separated from their forces, staring each other down in the middle of a battlefield.

Saren looked at the most powerful attacker of the city, longing to order his men to turn and charge. But more hassle would be caused by turning again, and more and more men were emerging behind Zimar by the second. Instead, as a sort of test, Saren launched a powerful mental attack.

It was met with strong barriers, and a counter-attack of equal strength, which Saren deflected.

The two men gazed at each other, respect and a little worry on each of their faces. Their eyes remained locked, until Saren turned his horse, heading towards his men, as the infantry he left behind him were killed, one by one, and the cavalry of the enemy began to enter the city, assembling behind Zimar, ready to advance. Saren contacted his magicians. He had a feeling he'd need them, against Zimar.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38: The Middle.**

As the magician, Saren, headed after his troops, Zimar's cavalry assembled behind him. He trotted forwards, giving them more room, and he waited until almost ten thousand men had entered the city, the majority being cavalry, and the men in the area had been killed. Zimar summoned his magicians to the front, and advanced towards where the horsemen had retreated. Six thousand of his cavalry followed him, following the four thousand with Saren, a constant stream heading after them as they went, and their numbers swelled considerably as they rode down the road.

As Zimar led them onwards, war cries erupted from the buildings to the sides, a bit back from where Zimar was, in the middle of the train of men. Hundreds of spearmen emerged from houses on either side, and many of Zimar's men were killed. Two hundred archers emerged in front of them, forming a wall across the road. They raised their bows and fired. Zimar's wards, now restored after his encounter with the dragon, deflected the arrows away from him, though around a hundred men fell, and Zimar charged forward, followed by many of his men. The archers fired again as they charged, and many more men fell. They prepared for another volley of arrows, so Zimar hurriedly reached for the magic.

"Jierda!" Not the bows, but the bowstrings snapped, taking a lesser toll than snapping all that wood would. The archers cried in dismay, then the cavalry reached them.

Zimar stabbed one through the eye, deflected a sword away from his horse's neck and slashed apart the neck of the soldier in retaliation. The body remained upright for a second, its neck holding its head up only because of the vertebra, which had not been fully severed. Then, the head swung back, revealing the glistening red flesh, like the inside of a tree that had been cut, straight, nearly the whole way through, that had then fallen backwards, exposing the core for all to see. Blood sprouted out of the jugular vein at the centre, spurting towards the sky, as the corpse fell back.

Zimar gashed a soldier's arm by swinging up his sword, then, as the man gasped at the wound and winced, moved forwards and pushed the other sword into his skull, through the temple. The archers were soon all dead, without Zimar's help, and he turned to see that the spearmen had managed to kill over a thousand of his troops, possibly more, but they were being beaten back by men that had followed and caught up with the rest of the cavalry, and when the spearmen had all been killed, more were still coming, and their numbers had been increased to seven, almost eight, thousand men. They regrouped, and charged down the street again, rounding a corner and heading uphill towards the castle.

Four thousand men on horseback were at the end of the street, one man at their head. Once the men under Zimar's command had rounded the corner and were charging towards them, the man at the head, probably Saren, gave an order. Several large boulders were rolled onto the street, each taller than a horse, and they were released, rolling down the hill and picking up speed as they headed for the charging horsemen. Zimar was struck dumb for a second, then, he acted.

"To the sides! Quick! He forced his horse to the left, and the troops tried to separate, heading for the sides. Zimar reached a wall, but a rock was still heading straight for him. He raised his hand, and said, "Raehta!" The boulder was forced to the right and Zimar lost some of his strength. The rest of the boulders hurtled past, killing about a thousand of the soldiers that weren't quite quick enough to reach the sides.

Zimar yelled, and charged, heading back into the middle of the road, the rest of the men following him up the hill. They had the advantage of numbers, with three thousand more men than the enemies. And that wasn't even all their cavalry. Thousands more could be brought into the city if needed, but Orrin had wanted them rested for battles ahead.

Zimar could see Saren again. The magician had his eyes closed, as the Surdans got closer, and then he spoke a word that Zimar recognised from the ancient language.

"Sharjalvi!"

Movement.

Zimar couldn't immediately understand what Saren was trying to do, but he heard rumbling and screams of terror behind him, and he glanced around to see a building, evidently already weakened, collapse in the road, killing, or at least cutting off, a thousand men, and blocking the way for more reinforcements. Zimar cursed and led the remaining six thousand onwards, his six magicians immediately behind him. Saren and five others led the opposing four thousand in a charge down at Zimar. He raised his swords and sent a mental attack at Saren, as did his other six magicians at Saren's five, as the two generals and their men charged at each other.

Saren deflected the mental attack, noting that it was weaker than before, but before he could retaliate, another of the magicians launched quite a powerful attack at him, and he was again forced to defend his mind. He sensed that Zimar was gathering himself for another attack, and he readied and strengthened his barriers in preparation, but against his expectations, the attack went past him, for another magician, surprising him and breaking through into his mind. Zimar killed him with a muttered word, and the body collapsed in the saddle, the horse veering away as the armies continued to charge at each other. It was Zimar and his six magicians against Saren with four.

Swearing, Saren sent the full force of his most powerful attack into a magician, crushing his mental barriers, as his second-in-command, Atheris, attacked Zimar as a distraction, and Saren quickly killed the man before withdrawing within his barriers as Zimar threw himself against them, and launching a hurried counter-attack of his own, and that was all he had time for before the armies collided.

Saren stabbed his spear at Zimar, who knocked it aside, and Saren twisted, catching the counter blow on his shield and stabbing at Zimar's horse. Zimar's block broke away the tip of the spear, so Saren threw the shaft at him, along with a strong mental attack. The mental assault was blocked, though the barriers weakened, but a late deflection meant that the shaft of the spear scratched Zimar's cheek. One of Saren's magicians was killed by a spear from one of the Surdan soldiers, and he cursed, deflecting a blow from the side with his shield and drawing his sword. He leant back, avoiding slash from Zimar, and lashed out backwards at one of Zimar's magicians, catching him by surprise and gashing him in the side. Atheris took over the man's mind, and he collapsed, dead, as the horsemen from both sides clashed and attacked around them.

Saren blocked a cut from Zimar, and had to stab at a soldier rather than the enemy leader as he was attacked. Both Zimar and another magician attacked his mind, but he repelled them, and launched a counter-attack at the magician. It wasn't very strong, and it didn't break his barriers, but it did distract him, and a soldier stabbed him through the neck with a spear. Zimar knocked Saren's sword aside, but instead of pressing the attack, lashed out back-handed at Saren's third magician to die whilst attacking Saren's mind. The barriers held firm, even as another attack was directed at him, and another, then Zimar again, and Saren strengthened his barriers even more as he realised that three magicians were attacking his mind at once. His mental defences held, somehow.

Atheris and another magician overwhelmed the magician of Zimar's that wasn't attacking Saren, so it was three on three in the mental struggle, as Saren slashed at Zimar. The blow was blocked, and he only just deflected Zimar's stab, bringing his shield around behind him at the same time to block a strike from another magician, and he backed off as they both closed in. His other magician came up beside him, and they launched mental assaults, as Zimar swung his sword.

Their attacks were met with barriers, strong ones, but Zimar's sword sliced through the other man's horse's nose. It reared, and Saren stabbed at Zimar as the other Surdan magician sliced at Saren's magician's horse's leg, injuring it there too. It collapsed forwards, and the magician forced his way through the mental barriers of the man on the fallen horse, killing him with a word as Saren's blow was blocked. Saren backed away again, weathering a couple of attacks, and then sending one of his most powerful directly through the other magician's barriers, killing him quickly, before retreating within himself and defending an extremely powerful attack from Zimar. He glimpsed Atheris fighting another magician, and it seemed equal, so he sent two attacks at once, a strong one heading for Zimar and a distraction heading for the other. Atheris seemed to momentarily gain the advantage, but Saren's attack on Zimar was blocked again, and the enemy general powered a mental assault of his own at Atheris, who just managed to hold him off, but the other magician smashed his weakened barriers aside, and even as Saren attacked him in retaliation, Atheris collapsed. His opponent, surprised at the victory, lost concentration and Saren blasted his barriers apart, killing him.

Saren gathered himself, looking at his last, and greatest, adversary. Zimar stared back, atop his horse, swords raised, as the battle raged on around them. Zimar's troops seemed to have the advantage of numbers still, but they were fighting uphill, making it harder for them, though it didn't seem to bother Zimar as he spurred his horse forwards, attacking with his mind.

Saren blocked the assault, and Saren launched an attack of his own with all the power he could. Zimar's barriers cracked severely under the pressure, and he slowed down, putting all his efforts into repairing the walls, and Saren launched his mind forwards again, almost breaking through. He rode forwards, sword raised, mind ready for the attack to finish their fight. He blasted the barriers to pieces as his enemy, broken, stared at him angrily, and Saren relished his moment as he began to speak the fatal word.

Relishing the moment for too long, it seemed.

A sword stuck out from his side, coming from behind, and he screamed as it was pulled out. Zimar pushed him out of his mind as he whirled around, yelling, "Jierda!" In his anger, however, Saren overdid the spell, and broke every bone in the man's body, rather than just his neck. The man crumpled, a bag of skin that looked nothing like a human any more, and Saren was weakened a lot. He tried to launch another mental attack at Zimar, but the weak barriers managed to keep him out. He would have tried again, but he was forced to defend as Zimar attacked, and the barriers had only gotten stronger when he assaulted Zimar's mind again. Weakened, he found it hard to hold off the soldier that charged at him, blocking with his shield, deflecting and stabbing with his sword, but a lot slower than before, and he killed the man, but barely managed to block another assault from Zimar, concentrating hard on an image of Zimar's own barriers at their weakest state. The image surprised Zimar, for the barriers looked weak, but were strong, and Saren's counter-attack caught him off guard, but even then Saren was thrown off. Saren realised that he was too weakened, that he couldn't win unless he healed himself, and to do that, he would need the time, space, and defences that would allow him to concentrate. Breaking away, he turned and galloped away, heading for a stronghold he had set up just to annoy whoever tried to capture the city, just a place with a few men that would be able to hold out for a while, just to delay the troops.

As he rode, he looked back, and he saw that the fight was over. About a thousand of Zimar's men were still alive, and they had killed all of his own. Zimar had lost more, but he had lost all.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39: And The Bitter End.

Saren placed his hand over his wound, and spoke the words of a powerful healing spell. He had just eaten, to get more energy, but the spell of healing still cost him a lot of strength. He resisted the urge to itch the wound as the flesh and skin grew back, staring into space and trying to control himself. The place where the sword had entered him hadn't yet healed, but where it had come out was covered in skin, and soon the part on his back was done as well, though his insides continued to itch as they joined back together. He muttered a spell to clean the blood off him as he snatched a piece of meat out of a bowl in front of him.

He was in a large kitchen area, with a simple layout, four walls with cooking gear and ingredients around the edges, laid out neatly, and a long table in the middle. He sat at the table, on a bench, relaxing and resting for a bit. It was a relief to be given the opportunity to do so, for Zimar wouldn't have that chance, and he was going to try to take that advantage while he could. Though the chances of survival for any of the men in the building were slim, he was determined to give a good reckoning of both himself and the Empire. And if he managed to kill Zimar, so much for the better.

He had arrived at the area he had decided to have as a strong point, a barracks in the time of Galbatorix, now built up into a tall house, but retaining the same basic features, including only being accessible from one direction, all others having a tall wall around them, and a large courtyard in front, and they had let him in, recognising him. He had demanded food, and what was left of the breakfast had been brought immediately. He stood up, and walked up the stairs to the top floor of the house, passing about a hundred soldiers in total as he did so, though there were more below, in the courtyard. There was no way onto the rooftop, so he walked out onto a balcony to get a view of the city.

He had had one more stronghold like the one he was in now set up on the other side of the city, and both were in similar buildings, with the flags of the Empire above them. He could tell where the other one was, because the flag still flew, and the flag still flew on the castle. There had also been flags above the four guardtowers on the city walls, and the gate, but two of the guardtowers had Orrin's flag above them, and so did the gate. The remaining two guardtowers were next to each other, and there were men fighting on the walls between them and the towers that had been taken by the Surdans, while the siege towers still neared, being fired at all the while. The men on the walls were being pushed back to the towers, though, and the siege towers weren't stopping.

Saren looked away from the towers, down, towards the former training ground. Five hundred archers stood there, bows ready. They would fire at any enemy soldiers that they saw, and when they were twenty metres away, the archers would lay down their bows and pick up their swords and shields, on the ground in front of them. As there would be a long way for the soldiers to charge, Saren estimated that they could hold off and kill up to a thousand soldiers. The soldiers in the upper rooms would fire out of the windows too. Saren was confident that they would be able to hold off and kill a lot of soldiers.

However, things didn't look good for the city on a whole, as the Surdans still had many more troops, and he knew that he wouldn't live to see the next day.

Saren just hoped he'd have another chance against Zimar, with his own men at his back this time.

Zimar was in front of the castle, waiting for the other troops and the battering rams to arrive. He was out of the range of the archers, as were the other horsemen that had survived. He hoped that the cavalry would have the sense to go with the rams, not try to get past the collapsed building or anything stupid. He didn't have much strength to waste searching with his mind. He looked down a road, one of the ones that the rams were coming up, and the one Saren had run down. He hadn't chased, but he would when the soldiers arrived with the battering rams. All the cavalry that came with the rams, and those with him, would search the place for him. Zimar wanted his victory over Saren to be final and personal; he would track him down and kill him himself before he had a chance to recover.

Though Saren had in fact broken Zimar's mental defences, Zimar was still confident. Surely wherever Saren had gone wouldn't have adequate troops, if any, to hold off even half of the cavalry he had with him? Just in case, however, he was waiting until more troops arrived, despite the fact that he was unwilling to release Saren from his grasp so easily. He would still be able to find him anyway. Then, he would end their battle.

Then, men came around the bend in the road that he was looking down, men in orange, men from Surda. First came a few thousand cavalry, with infantry behind them carrying a battering ram. The number of infantry was more than they had originally decided to send with the force, and as the cavalry were also there, Zimar guessed that someone competent had made the decision to split the troops and not try to walk through the rubble with horses. He heard the sounds of horses and men coming from the other road as well, and looked around to see an equally powerful force coming from the other direction.

There were a lot of men there, enough, Zimar guessed, to easily break into the castle, even without him. The battering rams would break the door like in Dras-Leona, and then the men would simply swarm in and kill all they saw. It was a simple plan, but one that left Zimar free to hunt down Saren.

Soon, the men reached them, and Zimar called out orders. "Cavalry, separate from the infantry! Infantry, move forwards with the battering rams, shoot at the archers on the battlements and at the windows, break down the doors, then spread out and kill every last soldier in there!" The infantry and the rams advanced, into the range of the archers, who fired at them. A lot fell, but the number was miniscule compared to the sheer number of soldiers there.

There's enough men there that they could probably break through by bashing the gate with their swords, rather than the rams, there's that many! I won't get them to try it, though. That would take forever.

The cavalry had moved back, and joined Zimar's force. Now, he could find Saren, and kill him, easily. "Two thousand of you cavalry, stay here, just in case. The rest, come with me. If there are any magicians among you, one can come to the front with me. We go to kill their leader!" He rode off down the street, the vast majority of the cavalry following. He muttered a spell to trace Saren's path, and followed it as a spellcaster rode up next to him.

Alone... Injured... Running...

Saren wouldn't stand a chance!

A little while later, five hundred soldiers walked past the courtyard, and the archers all released their arrows. Almost half the men fell, and the rest jumped back, out of sight. A few peered round, and got fired at, though only one was hit. "Don't all waste your arrows at once!" Saren called down from his vantage point up on the balcony. The idiots would never get anywhere like that! He saw some of the men run off down the street, heading away from the stronghold, and he presumed that they were going to get reinforcements. There was nothing he could do about that, so he took a final look around the rooftops, noting that only one of the on the wall had kept the flag of the Empire. The other had the Surdan flag, and men were retreating from it, across the wall, to the other, fighting as they went. The first tower had people fighting at the top, and the men on the wall on the other side were being forced back as well. Saren sighed, and walked down the stairs to stand with the archers.

He emerged from the building, walked through the two lines of men and stood there, his hand on the hilt of his sword, waiting for something to happen.

It didn't take long.

The soldiers that were left, hiding behind the wall, suddenly began to poke their heads around again, but this time, no-one fired. The sound of boots marching was heard, more men coming to join the others, Saren presumed. Voices could faintly be heard, and then, all was silent.

Then, all the men charged around the corner. Saren cursed, then he cried, "Wait," as that many arrows would be wasted on the few soldiers that had entered so far, so when around a hundred had come round the corner, he yelled, "Fire!"

The archers fired, and all but ten of the soldiers were killed. More kept charging around, though, as the archers fitted their arrows to the strings, pulled back, and fired again. More fell, but even more came around the corner, and they kept getting closer as the archers fired again, downing even more. There was time for one more volley of arrows, and around two hundred and fifty fell, before the archers put their bows down, although arrows still came from the men at the windows. Saren guessed that it was around two hundred that actually reached them, and he yelled and ran forwards, as did the men once they had picked up their swords and shields.

Saren raised his shield, blocking a hammer blow that left it with a dent, and he swung wildly at head height, bashing a soldier's helm and dazing him. Saren blocked another blow from the hammer man and stepped in towards the other, smashing the sword in to his ribcage. The man choked, coughed up blood, and fell. Saren slashed at the arm of the man who had the hammer, and he dropped it. He knelt to pick it up, and Saren would have taken the chance to kill him, but he had to settle for kicking him in the face as he was forced to parry a thrust from a swordsman. The man fell back, nose broken, and got his head chopped off by one of Saren's men, as Saren himself had a blow caught on a shield, but he lashed out as the man retaliated, catching him on the cheek. The man fell back, and Saren pressed the attack, slicing down, both cutting the man's arm and pushing away his shield. The final blow was simple; a step forwards, onto his foot, using the shield to push away the sword arm as well, keeping the sword off, another step forwards and a swift stab through the bottom of the man's throat, into his brain. Saren pulled out the sword to see that the twenty or so men that remained were running, only to be shot by the archers higher up in the building. Out of the people who had attacked, around one thousand, two hundred and fifty in total having got into the courtyard, two hundred and fifty having been shot outside, none had survived.

Saren turned around again to see that the man whose ribcage he had smashed was still coughing up blood, and still had his sword. He walked over to him, kicked his sword out of his hand and stabbed him in the neck.

As he said, none had survived.

He looked around his own troops, glad to see that only around a hundred and fifty of his own soldiers had been killed. They had had numbers and archers on their side, and they had lost relatively few and killed a total of one and a half thousand men. The enemy had almost ten times their losses. Saren laughed at that.

_Zimar won't have it all his own way!_

A short while later, a few hundred soldiers came to the place, advancing more cautiously than the previous five hundred that had just walked out in front of them, like dummies on a shooting range! Saren was wondering if he should do anything about the men, who had probably come to investigate the disappearance of the thousand reinforcements that had been sent to eradicate the resistance.

_They are certainly annoying... no doubt they will tell people we are here, in fact, they probably already have... we could always charge forwards and attack them all, but they may have as many men as us, and in a fair battle without a few good volleys of arrows first we would have little chance, not that we could get even one arrow to hit one of them. They are pinned down as much as we are, but they're happy with it, for we can do nothing, but their friends can do much, and they can fetch their friends._

He heard the clatter of horses' hooves, and he knew that they were of the enemy. All the horses of the city had been with him, and had been killed in the battle. The noise got louder, and there were cries of relief from the soldiers that had found them. Saren realised that they had called in the cavalry, and that Zimar was probably at their head. For the first time, he was worried. There would be a lot, as the Surdans had always focused on cavalry as a strong point. They trained them the best, too.

_If cavalry come here, all of us out in the courtyard shall be easily defeated, no matter how many there are. However, if we're in the building, they lose their steeds, and we can fire as they charge, through the windows. We can kill a lot, and then, they will be forced to dismount, losing the height advantage... Then, we are defending and they are advancing in tight conditions with a lot of doorways, which will always favour the defender._

"Back into the buildings. A hundred of you, join the archers at the window and on the top balcony, ready to fire. The rest of you, get your swords and shields again. We will pile the bodies against the windows, so they don't break in that way, and then we will retreat inside." They hastened to do his bidding, piling both the bodies of those who had and hadn't reached them. The enemy soldiers hadn't noticed yet, and by the time they had, the windows were almost blocked fully. Then, the cavalry Saren had heard came into view. There were two men at their head, and one of them held two swords.

"Leave the bodies now! That is enough. Get inside! Leave your bows out here, you won't need them, and they'll get in your way, and everyone else's. It doesn't matter if they get trampled." As Saren spoke, more of the cavalry soldiers came into view, and though the archers were firing at them from the windows, their numbers were only increasing as more filed into view behind them.

The men dropped their bows, and entered the building, Saren coming last. As he walked in, he saw that one of the men had kept his bow with him, and was walking through into the house with it. Swearing, Saren grabbed his mail vest and pulled him back. Commands were there to be obeyed. He looked the man in the eyes, and there was fear in them as Saren spoke.

"Why did you disobey me and bring the bow inside?" Saren used a low, threatening tone, practically growling. The man winced at his voice, cowering in fear, but he managed to stammer out an answer.

"S-s-sir, I-I cannot leave my bow to be broken by the hooves of the horses and trampled into the dust. I-i-it was my grandsire's, sir, a-and his grandsire's before him, and I shall pass it on to my own son, s-sir, for that has been the tradition in my family for years, and my f-father made me promise I would, sir, just before he d-d-died. I-it was his last wish." Saren narrowed his eyes.

"Do you know the meaning of duty? You do as you're told, for the advantage of everyone else." The man's voice wobbled again as he answered.

"B-be that as it may, sir, I shall not leave the bow and dishonour my father's memory." Saren's eyes flared in anger, and he struck out at the bow with his sword, breaking it in two. The man stared, horror-struck, at the broken pieces of wood, joined with string, in his hand.

"Now, I can never have a son, or I shall have broken my promise. I'll never be a father..." Saren glared at the man, uncaring, before he heard war cries and turned around to see thousands of horses charging across the courtyard at them.

He whirled around and looked the man in the eyes again. "It doesn't really look like you're going to have a son anyway, now does it?" He waved his hand towards the charging men, now halfway across the courtyard. "Now, get into a defensive position and prepare to fight. There is no room for sentimentality here. You're in the army, not the sick bay!" The man stared at him, gazing into his eyes, before saluting.

"Aye, sir." He spoke sarcastically, anger, hate, and utter loathing all over his face, before turning on his heels and entering one of the rooms to the side, sword and shield ready. Saren himself retreated to the end of the corridor, ready to fight the man at the head of the assault, Zimar, as the horsemen reached the front of the building.

Saren could see that they were still being shot at from above, through the door he could see a number falling, arrows in their heads, but more were dismounting and heading for the entrance, led by a man with two swords, and another man was following close behind him. There were no men in the corridor, but by the time over twenty of the Surdans began to pass the doors, they sprung open, into their faces, and the defenders charged out and began to fight. A door was opened in front of Zimar, and the man Saren had spoken to, the soft-hearted fool with the old bow, ran into the corridor and attacked him, swinging his sword, as Saren sent a mental attack. However, Zimar's barriers had not weakened since they had last met, though they were dented by the attack, and a block from Zimar was as strong as ever. Zimar swung his sword as the man behind Zimar attacked Saren with his mind. His barriers blocked the attack, and the man's shield was hit. He yelled in anger.

"THIS IS FOR THE SON I'LL NEVER HAVE BECAUSE OF YOU, YOU MURDURER!" The man stabbed, hard and fast, forcing Zimar to jump to the side, but before the man could react, he was decapitated.

Zimar looked down at his head. "Apt words indeed." He parried a blow from another soldier that came out the door, stabbed him, and slammed the door in the face of the next man to try to come out, before walking past towards Saren, leaving the man to his soldiers, the magician scurrying after him. The resistance was all but eliminated in the corridor, and the Surdans were edging around the bodies, of their friends and their enemies alike, advancing further in, but there were still men inside the rooms, and sounds of fighting were still coming from them, but more and more Surdans entered the building.

Zimar was still going towards Saren, at the end of the corridor, and Saren decided to let him get close before acting. By the time Zimar was two metres away, Saren was ready.

He hurled all his mental might into the barriers of the man, and they were almost destroyed totally, stopping Zimar in his tracks. He tried to slip through a crack, but the other man attacked, and he was forced onto the defensive mentally, even as he went on the offensive, slicing down hard at Zimar's head. He stumbled back and blocked the blow, lunging forwards himself with his mind and his swords, forcing Saren away. He stepped to his right, both swords coming for Saren's head from different directions, and Saren blocked with his shield whilst ducking under the blow and stabbing forwards, but Zimar jumped back whilst swinging his left sword down, catching Saren's shoulder. He gasped, backing off and speaking words of healing, but as the magic took its effect, Zimar stabbed upwards at his chin and swung at his neck at the same time. The stab was deflected away to the right, Zimar's own sword blocking the slash as a result, and Saren stepped forwards whilst half turning, his shield keeping the swords at bay as he spun around and slashed backhanded, but Zimar ducked away from the blow.

Saren cursed. Zimar was good, as always, but he was certain that he would manage to beat him eventually, in a fair fight.

_If the fight remained fair._

A mental assault crashed into Saren, then another, and he stumbled back to avoid a blow to the chest. He raised his shield to stop Zimar coming around the side as the other magician closed in as well, sword raised. Saren cursed as three swords came for him and he was forced to jump back, retreating up the stairs. Zimar stepped in front of the other man, and again Saren attacked his mind mightily, and nearly broke through, but the other man attacked back as Saren bent and blocked a cut to the legs with his shield and sliced down at Zimar's head, trying to use the height advantage. The blow was deflected to the side, he blocked a lunge and backed off. Another slice went for his shins; he jumped over the gleaming blade and slashed at the exposed head. Zimar smoothly stepped to the side, pushed the sword away and stabbed at him, Saren backing up the stairs and emerging onto the first floor. Zimar and the other magician followed, and Saren stood his ground in the narrow corridor. They couldn't attack him both at once, so once again it was just him and Zimar.

_Once again..._

Memories of the past sprung up, but he cursed and waved them away, concentrating fully. It was a good thing he did, as Zimar attacked him with his mind, whilst stepping in and deflecting his sword to the side. Saren's barriers, as usual made up of an image of the walls of Aberon, held easily, as he smashed his shield into the stab and the sword hit the wall. Keeping it there by pressing it with his shield, he duelled Zimar with just one sword each, both a fairer and more risky approach. He would have to keep his guard tighter. He had his sword in his right hand, and Zimar's was in his left hand. His weaker hand. Hopefully, that would give him the advantage, and a chance to end their fight.

Zimar cursed as his hand was trapped, and blocked a backhanded swing from Saren. His sword was knocked to the left for a second, but he hooked Saren's sword up with his crossguard and sliced down at his head. The blow was pulled to the side, and he changed it into a slash at Saren's shield arm. The shield was jerked down, then smashed back into his right arm as Zimar jerked his left back, trying to avoid a downwards slice, but not managing completely, and his arm was cut. He had foregone his wards after the start of the fight with Saren, as it was personal now, a matter of honour for him. He was determined not to fail, determined to kill, and no matter how tough it got, determined not to cheat. It was unusual for him to want a fair fight, but he felt like theirs should be an honest test of strength.

He lunged forwards now, with a lot less precision, due to the cut, and it was easily blocked. He pulled his sword out from behind the shield with a large effort as Saren swung hard at his head, jumping back.

The corridor was a dead end. Zimar healed himself quickly and pressed forwards with a stab and a slash, which were blocked and avoided respectively. Zimar stepped towards Saren, launching a mental assault at the strong barriers, which he couldn't manage to break. Leaving the rest to the other magician, he shouted to him as a distraction.

"You always were strong, but this time, I shall win!" Saren said nothing, sending another attack almost right through Zimar's barriers and stabbing towards his chest. Zimar deflected the blow, and his slash was blocked by the shield. Saren glared and stepped back to avoid a backhanded attack.

"No! You shall die here, by my hand! I shall kill you!" Zimar sliced inwards with both swords at Saren's head, and the sword and shield each blocked one, the sword blocking the left and the shield the right. Zimar slashed the right sword across the shield, hitting Saren's sword at the top. As the other sword was still pressing it at the bottom, it would force the sword out of Saren's hand if it hit hard enough, so Zimar hit at it with all his strength.

Saren let go of the sword before the other made contact, and just after Zimar's slash had gone past he punched him in the face. Zimar reeled back, healing his nose, and Saren picked up the sword again. Zimar and the other magician both attacked mentally at once, nearly breaking the barriers, but they quickly regained their strength. Saren ran forwards, leading with his shield, sword raised. Zimar drew his sword across the shield, whilst dodging to his left, raising the weapon and pushing Saren's sword up. He went for Saren's eye with the other, but the man spun around, raising his shield and doing a reverse spinning kick at the same time. Zimar's attack was deflected and a foot slammed into his ribs as he fell away. They weren't broken, luckily, as the blow hadn't properly connected, but Zimar found it hard to regain his balance as Saren attacked the other man.

Saren just moved into him, keeping the sword off with his shield, but the man moved it up in a looping blow for the head. Saren slammed the flat of his blade into the man's knuckles, and the sword was released, to smash into the wall. The man backed away, but Saren turned, shield above his head and sword horizontally in front of him, perfectly anticipating and blocking both of Zimar's attacks whilst kicking him in the shin. Zimar stumbled, swords above his head to block fatal blows, and Saren moved around to his right, shoving with his shield and stabbing at Zimar's back. Zimar dived, rolled and came up, noting with pleasure that again it was Saren at the dead end, and the magician had retrieved his weapon.

"Now isn't that just brilliant! What an example of brotherly love, that's the second time you've tried to stab me in the back!" Saren hefted his shield, ready to fight again, and willing to.

"If I'd succeeded the first time, Mother and Father would still be alive. You were the cause of their deaths! You betrayed us to the Empire! You told them we supported the Varden! I shall never forgive you, murderer. You die now!" Saren attacked his mind, all the rage and hate he felt fuelling the attack. It was all Zimar could do to keep him out. He jeered at Saren.

"And what did happen after I left to join the army? I like hearing of the deaths of traitors." Zimar attacked, his sword a blur as it hit Saren's, but his brother kept his hold on the sword, pushing Zimar's up and the shield blocked the counter blow before Saren lunged for Zimar's head. The sword was battered to the side, and Zimar went for the head. Saren ducked, slicing at Zimar's feet, but he jumped over the strike and Saren backed away quickly, deflecting a blow with his shield.

"After I guessed what you'd done, we fled Uru'baen, on the pretence that it was for Father's work. We rode south, to join the Varden in Surda, but a patrol caught us. They fired arrows first, and Mother and Father were hit, but I rode fast in the other direction and they couldn't catch me. I hid away from everyone, friend or foe, until the Varden took Uru'baen, when I returned here, and I was tested for magic, and taught how to fight, and all so I could kill you when you turned up, as you surely would. I want nothing more than to stick this steel through your accursed heart, and now I shall." So saying, Saren leapt forwards, and his blow almost knocked Zimar's sword away. But Zimar hung on to it, stabbing under the interlocked blades with his other sword, and Saren's shield blocked the blow, though it received a dent. It was beginning to look quite battered.

Saren pulled his blade back, made as if to cut at Zimar's head, but rotating his wrist around and smacking the blade into the inside edge of Zimar's sword, which was raised horizontally in a block. Zimar was pulled forwards, his other weapon deflecting a slash heading for his belly as Saren ducked under the sword. Saren lashed out at his shoulder with the shield, pushing him into the wall, stabbing for the shoulder, but the magician's sword blocked the attack. Saren swore, lashing out at Zimar again, but this time Zimar blocked the blow himself, smashing an attack into the shield as Saren kicked the magician in the stomach. He then kneed him in the face as he crumpled, whilst blocking a stab to the chest and a slash to the leg he was standing on at the same time. Zimar cursed as the magician backed away and Saren turned back to him. His brother was still better and stronger than him. However, he did have a weakness.

_His equipment is letting him down. The sword is getting a bit jagged at the edges, and that shield has more dents than the gate to the castle will by now!_

Saren turned back to him, away from the magician, moving forwards towards Zimar. Two slashes came for him, both were blocked easily and a slice went down at Zimar's arm. He jumped back, and Saren whirled, blocking a blow and punching the other man in the chest, before hitting him on the head with the pommel of the sword. The man fell to the ground, unconscious. Saren turned again, and jumped back to avoid a slash.

The brothers stared each other down, one on one. Screams had stopped coming from downstairs, and men were entering the corridor at the other side. "Go up first! Up!" The men hesitated at Zimar's words, then advanced upstairs, leaving the two leaders to themselves.

"So tell me, what's your story? How did you get here?" Saren asked, looking into Zimar's eyes. Zimar gazed back as he answered, noting with pleasure the sheer loathing Saren showed. It was all over his face.

"After I betrayed the three of you, as you correctly guessed, I joined Galbatorix's army, and I was sent to Fenister. I met a man, a sorcerer and magician, one of three in the city. He taught me a bit, enough to defend myself, and I fought in the battle. I survived, just, and snuck out into the Varden's camp when they had taken the city. A magician sensed my mind, which I didn't know how to defend, and discovered my intentions: to kill all the Varden I could. He was, luckily, a member of the Black Hand, and he allowed me to join, teaching me more powerful magic. However, on one of my assignments; slipping alcohol into Orrin's drink; I was caught, and I was forced to beg for my life. He saw fit to let me live; influenced by the drink, I think; if I swore my service to him, so I did, and I have since become his most trusted servant." Saren nodded, raising his weapons and advancing. Zimar grinned, and continued, "Time to die!"

It had been hard for him to actually tell someone what he'd done, but it wasn't as if Saren would have the time to actually tell anyone. Or if he did, it wasn't as if Zimar would have to face the consequences. Either he or Saren would die at the hand of the other, and it wouldn't be him if he could help it.

He slashed, Saren blocking with the sword, and Zimar's stab was dodged, and pushed to the side with the shield as Saren half turned and slashed backhanded, the second time he'd tried that, but this time instead of dodging, Zimar anticipated the move and blocked the powerful blow, jolting his sword. A swing of the other sword hit the shield as Saren brought it around again, the sword deflecting another blow. Saren lunged for Zimar's chest, turning the strike down towards his stomach, but Zimar battered it down further, the shield catching another blow as Saren bent and swung at Zimar's left leg, at the shin, bringing the shield up over his head in an attempt to block any blows. Zimar stepped back, but Saren charged forwards, slicing at the legs again, shield still over his head. Zimar jumped, dodging the blade, but the edge of the shield slammed into his stomach as Saren continued on, flipping Zimar over him. Zimar fell, getting to his feet as Saren turned.

Zimar glanced around for something to give him the advantage, but there was nothing in the corridor. He looked at the severely dented shield again, noticing one very dented weak point. It had evidently been struck with something heavy, and there were scratches from his swords there as well.

_If I target it, I may have a chance..._

Saren moved in again. He saw that Zimar was staring at his shield, and he used the distraction to its full advantage, slashing hard at Zimar's head. A messed up deflection and a late duck were just enough to save him, but again Saren trapped his sword with the shield and he sliced down diagonally. Again, the attack was deflected, and Zimar lunged forwards. Saren pushed the sword to his right hand side, stabbing at the arm, which was pulled back hurriedly, and Zimar yanked his other sword out from behind the shield, and he slashed at Saren's head. Saren ducked, raising his shield over his head and back as he did so, but the blade of a sword plunged down, through the hammer dent left in the shield and into Saren's shoulder.

He screamed in pain as the blade entered his body, penetrating flesh and grating against the bone. It was the shoulder of his shield arm, and it was impossible to move the limb, and by extension the shield. The sword left his body, and he jumped back to avoid an upwards swing as Zimar went in for the kill. Before he had the chance to heal himself, Zimar pressed on, both swords weaving around his own as he backed away. He deflected a blow to the neck, but he received a cut on the arm that he would have blocked with ease with his shield, had it worked. Instead, the arm hung by his side, useless, but he left the shield on, as it gave his side a bit of extra protection.

Zimar whacked both his swords into Saren's, knocking it out of his hand, but Saren kicked him in the groin. Zimar crumpled as Saren grabbed his sword again, but as Saren tried to take off his head he rolled backwards and stood, charging again. Slashes came for the head and the chest, and Saren pretended he was about to step back, moving his right leg, before ducking, blocking the lower blow and spinning the leg around, a foot above the ground. Zimar was knocked to the floor, but he flailed out at Saren with his right sword, catching his side. Saren managed to straighten up again as Zimar got to his feet, blood pouring from both his shoulder and the side that had been injured earlier, though that wound was less severe.

Zimar charged again, and Saren ran forwards as well, his rage giving him strength, and as one sword was brought downwards towards his skull he caught the sword where the blade and crossguard of his own sword met, sliding it forwards towards Zimar's head. Zimar dodged it, moving his head to his left whilst slicing in at Saren with the other sword. Saren let the shield block the blow, for it wasn't aimed well, stepping in and slashing diagonally down Zimar's torso. The man jumped back, getting a scratch across his chest and avoiding the worst of the blow. Saren would have pressed his advantage, but a stab came for his head and another for his stomach. He quickly stepped back, dashing aside the one heading for the head, turning so the shield would block the other. He tried to ram into Zimar as the man ran forwards, to keep one sword off with the shield and hurt him in any way possible, but the man was too smart, edging to the shield side to get away from the sword. The shield slammed into him and Saren tried to get out of reach, deflecting one sword away, but the other rested on his neck and he froze.

"Any last words?" Came Zimar's voice, triumphant and arrogant. The other sword was flicked up to Saren's chin as he continued. There was a blade on each side of his neck, ready to kill. "Well? Go on, swear at me, foretell my death, curse me, do your worst."

Saren grinned, staring deep into his brother's eyes. "I never liked you."

And then the sword at his chin shot upwards, his head exploded with pain and he saw no more.

Zimar pulled his sword out from his brother's corpse, and it collapsed on the ground. He spat on it, and walked away.


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40: Assassination?**

"How far from the city are you?" A voice came from the mirror, but it was expected, and Roran was unsurprised as he turned around to see Eragon in the mirror, atop Saphira. They were above a large forest of pines, flying fast, a few small mountains sticking up out of the great sea of trees a bit behind them. Saphira's scales were glimmering in the last rays of the sun, contrasting sharply with the dark green needles of the trees.

Eragon himself looked as fine as ever. He had Brisingr on his hip, he wore clothes of a brown colour, and a blue ring shone on his hand. He had a worried expression on his face, looking at Roran, Jormundur, and Dusan, who were standing in the command pavilion, apart from Jormundur, who was sitting on the throne. The army had marched for a day since Saren had contacted them, with the news of Orrin's army, and the plans for the defence of the city, and Roran feared the worst. Orrin, he felt, would not waste his time, and they would need to hurry to retake the city, as surely it would soon fall, if it hadn't already.

It was Jormundur who replied. "We are currently around two days away. How far are you, and when should you arrive, for that shall probably decide our strategy upon reaching the city?" Eragon seemed to stop and think for a moment, though Roran knew he was probably talking to Saphira.

"In about four days, we should reach the city, that is, four days of flying fast. We have outrun the storm we encountered, and the weather is going to be fair, as far as we can tell. Do you know if Ilirea is taken yet, or if it still holds out?" Roran shook his head in response.

"We haven't had any news from the city, but it is highly likely that it has been broken into by now at the very least. Possibly it has already been mostly taken, though it is likely that the castle still holds out against the assault. It is strong, almost as strong as the gate into the city." Eragon raised his eyebrows at Roran's words, as the other two in the tent nodded as well.

"If someone could scry the city, it would help, though I only have one mirror here, and as far as I recall, you only have one there. I shall end the spell, and contact you again shortly." The image went black, then reflected the inside of the tent again.

Dusan said, "I shall scry it as well, so you can see for yourselves," quickly whispered a few words, and Ilirea was revealed on the mirror. Roran gasped in shock.

The massive gate was lying on the ground in front of the great city, propped up by an unknown object. Men lay dead around the outside, and just inside the gate there were more bodies, mainly piled on either side. Around the walls, corpses scattered the battlements, and the four guardtowers flew the flags of Surda.

In a street, leading in from the gate, there was more carnage. Bodies of horses were lying on the ground, and soldiers lay there as well. There was a lot of bodies around a corner too, people who appeared to have been crushed, and a house had collapsed into the street further on. Along the road was the site of a larger conflict, where thousands of dead littered the ground. Two battering rams hammered on the castle gate, archers firing from the strong walls at the men who crowded around the rams, though they couldn't possibly kill all of them before they broke in. There were simply too many.

There were seven flags flying over the city, in several different places. Aside from the four atop the guardtowers, the flag of the Empire flew at the top of the castle, tall and proud in its glory. Two more flags were raised across the city, at two seemingly random locations. Roran guessed that they were strongholds. Both flew the flag of the Varden, but men of Surda were outside one of the buildings in force, and even as they watched, that building's flag was brought down, and a Surdan flag raised in its place. Now, only the castle, being broken into, and the other stronghold, which had dead bodies of Surdan soldiers in front of it, and still seemed to have a large force within, held out.

Roran and the others gazed at the image for about a minute, looking at the soldiers as they searched through the streets, penetrating deeper and deeper into the capital. It was saddening to think of the thousands of dead, killed for no good reason, as far as Roran could tell.

_All because of one man who wanted more than he needed. Orrin was fine in Surda. I don't need more than Palancar Valley, in fact, I'd be happy with less, but he has to want more? What is it with people and power? Is it just our nature, to do what we do and think we deserve stuff for it, not considering how well we can do as we are? Is it something within all of us? Are we so incapable of the ability to just appreciate what we do for the sake of doing it, and helping others? That's the biggest problem with the world, people who would rather help themselves than others, keep for themselves than give to others. Sloan was a perfect example. He was never kind to our family in Carvahall, and he would rather have kept his daughter to himself than let her marry and be happy. _Roran laughed to himself, dry and humourlessly. _Then again, am I any better? I accepted all the titles Nausada heaped upon me, rather than returning to the farm. I, too, wanted to keep Katrina for myself, and in the end, I tore her from her father, and he is dead as a result. I took life from the equivalent of over half the former population of Carvahall in a single day, and kept it for myself, when by stopping and returning I could have saved a hundred and ninety-three lives. Am I a hypocrite?_

Then, the mirror seemed to blur, interrupting Roran's train of thought, and an image of Eragon seemed to impose itself in front of the city. Roran jumped, but Dusan simply spoke a word, and the city vanished, leaving just Eragon again, with a puzzled look on his face.

"What happened just there? The picture was blurry for longer than usual." Dusan answered Eragon's question.

"Ebrithil, I was scrying the city at the same time, so we know what is going on for ourselves." Eragon looked interested.

"What did you see? I have never heard a description of what a scrying mirror looks like with two things shown at once." Dusan went on to describe the image, leaving Roran feeling oddly left out of the conversation as Eragon nodded in reply, asking a couple of questions before returning to the actual discussion.

"Anyway, as you have seen, the city will soon fall. As the gate has been destroyed, Orrin will likely engage you out in the open. You should prepare for that when you arrive." The two men nodded, Dusan preforming an elven gesture instead.

"We know how to manage an army, Eragon!" Roran joked, and Eragon grinned in response, but his expression returned to serious as Jormundur spoke.

"The Surdan cavalry is a strong force, and they will likely use that to its full advantage. We only have a small number of cavalry, so we shall need to find a way to kill a lot of theirs. Archers would be a good asset against them, as would pikemen and spearmen, so the archers should be ready to fire early, and the pikemen should be at the front of the army, unless their cavalry aren't in that position. They may attempt the method of attack we used at the Burning Plains, infantry coming from the front and a cavalry charge catching us at the side. We shall need something, some sort of natural formation, to guard our flanks in the battle." Roran mumbled in agreement. It was a good plan.

"And if there are no such formations around the city, we can simply plant stakes and dig trenches in a boundary around our sides." Dusan said, and everyone glanced around at him in surprise. He met their eyes, and said modestly, "It was Laenar's idea in the first place, not mine." A growl came from outside the tent, making Roran jump in surprise. What was that? Then, a grey dragon's head wound its way into the flap that had been created for Saphira, and nudged Dusan so hard he fell over, before looming over him. Roran could tell that a mental conversation was going on between them, and he laughed at the sight of the elf on the floor, especially when Laenar snorted in his face before withdrawing her head. The gap in the tent wall wasn't quite big enough for her to fit through without ripping, and the edge had been torn by her spines on the way in and the way out. Dusan sighed, repaired the tent with a word, and cleaned himself up with magic as well, standing up again and turning back to the others. Roran was still laughing.

"Anyway, I should probably go now, you can take care of yourselves," Eragon said, a grin on his face, and the mirror went black for a second.

"I am afraid I shall have to go too. Laenar wants to talk with me alone, unless there is anything else of importance we need to discuss?" When Jormundur and Roran shook their heads, Dusan exited the tent, and the wingbeats of a dragon were soon heard, along with a few "oohs," and "aahs" from the outside of the tent. Roran also heard some mutterings about elves coming from behind the rear of the tent, but he thought nothing more of it than the typical suspicions from one race to another.

"The battle draws ever closer," Jormundur observed, "Yet those that should be pleased to work together do not."

"Aye," Roran sighed. "According to Eragon, that was what caused the fall, in some ways. Galbatorix and the Forsworn's hate for elves was a big reason for their drive for revenge." The king-to-be nodded, sadness on his face. He was about to speak when he was interrupted by a challenge from the guards at the entrance as they crossed their pikes, blocking the way.

"What are your names, and why do you seek to see the King?" It was the leader of that shift of the Nighthawks who spoke. Roran peered out to see that there were twelve men facing him.

"He is not the King yet, so why should you call him that?" A tall, strong man at the head of the group had spoken, probably the leader.

"Be that as it may, he shall be the King, so I ask you again; why do you seek to see the king?" The other man's eyes narrowed.

"He is not the king! There is only one King of the Humans, and it shall never be him! We serve the true King!" Puzzlement flashed over the captain's face for a moment, before suspicion, and he put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Galbatorix?" He began to draw the weapon, but he stopped as laughter erupted from the leader of the group.

"Not Galbatorix, you fool! Orrin!" He drew his sword, as did the rest of the twelve men, and he stabbed at the captain, but the blow was deflected, and the Nighthawks were fighting, outnumbered by two men.

Roran stared, aghast, as the groups fought. Three men quickly came to fight on the side of the Nighthawks, but two of the Surdan men whirled and fought them. A Nighthawk fell, and another went to fight off the ordinary men. It seemed he was a magician, for they quickly fell, and the Nighthawks killed two more before the others re-joined that fight, evening the numbers a bit more. Some more men appeared, and Roran was about to join the fight himself, but before he could, he heard a ripping, tearing sound, whirled around and saw six men climbing through a large, fresh gash in the back of the tent. They carried swords, shields, and they wore armour. Roran yanked out his hammer, which was all he had. He wore simple clothes, and he didn't bring shields to meetings. Jormundur likewise only had his sword, and the Nighthawks couldn't help. He readied himself for a hard fight.

Three of the men charged at him, and he felt an assault on his mental barriers; composed of his memories of Katrina and Ismira, they held firm.

A man slashed hard at his torso, and he blocked with his hammer, using the head of the hammer to pull the sword above his head and around as he stepped to the left and brought the hammer down, hard. The man's skull was split, and he fell as Roran faced the other two.

Likewise, Jormundur had dispatched one of his opponents, but he was on the back foot as two struck at him from both sides. The two men Roran was fighting tried a similar manoeuvre, each attacking at an angle. Roran dodged a downwards strike, parrying a stab and lashing out, but a shield blocked the blow. He stepped back to avoid a lunge, bringing his hammer down on the sword and jerking it out of the man's hand. The man dodged a blow to the head and retrieved the first man's sword as Roran pressed the other back. The man was good with his shield, and he blocked all the blows, before Roran ducked to avoid the other man's sword and rolled to the side. He cursed and spun, hammer outstretched, breaking the arm of the man who had attacked from the side. He screamed, and Roran stepped nearer, before dodging behind him to avoid an attack and striking at his back. The man fell, and Roran cursed upon seeing that he was against the man who was good with his shield again.

Jormundur had picked up a shield, but Roran saw that he had lost his sword, and two men, one of them injured on the arm, one with a gash on his leg, were advancing towards him. Roran cursed, jumping to Jormundur's side and blocking a slash headed for Jormundur's head. The leader flashed him a grateful glance, as the three men closed in on them.

Jormundur was automatically on the defensive without a weapon, so the brunt of the burden fell to Roran. He blocked a slash heading for his head, parried a stab, went to hit a man's hand but had to sidestep a downwards slice. Jormundur managed to punch one of the men in the face, making him stagger back, and Jormundur tripped him, but before he could do anything else, another soldier had smashed into him with his shield, and he fell.

Roran was only pleased that he'd managed to block the _sword_ before it was too late.

Roran backed away from a slash and hit the man who'd charged into Jormundur in the back. He screamed, falling, but the man Roran had backed away from threw his shield into him, knocking him over, before running, sword raised to kill, right at him. The man who'd been tripped by Jormundur got up, and charged towards Jormundur, who was staggering to his feet, winded.

Both leaders exchanged a look, unprepared, enemies rushing at them, a look that agreed they would keep fighting as long as they could, no matter what their injuries were, no matter how hopeless.

As the attackers outside were being killed relatively quickly, those inside were about to achieve their goal. Roran tried to bring his hammer across to defend himself, Jormundur raised his shield a bit higher, but they knew they would be too late. The swords were already descending.

A blur sped through the back of the tent, up to one soldier, then the other, in less than a second, and the heads of the soldiers fell off.

Roran and Jormundur looked around at each other, shocked, then both jumped up and glanced around for either the attacker or their saviour. The tent seemed normal, until they walked past the Throne, and saw Angela the herbalist sitting on it, cleaning a sword. She glanced up at them.

"Hello! I figured you'd need some help against those pathetic idiots, so I came." She sheathed the sword, which had an extremely strange edge, took out some needles and wool and began to knit a sweater.


	41. Chapter 41

**DomesticHouseCat: Thanks dude, I'm glad it's up on here too!**

**Googons: I liked the ending of that one too! Thanks!**

**: Thanks, I appreciate the praise, and glad the characters worked for you! I'm sorry that you don't want to read any more of it, but that's your choice, not mine, so there isn't much I can do!**

**Mattchew Inheritance: Thanks, and it will be kept up! Much more left to post!**

**Elemental Dragon Slayer: Glad you liked it! I enjoyed writing the Angela bit too, it just seemed so **_**her**_**!**

**Googons (again): Thank you!**

**Brisingrrider: Thanks, glad you liked what I did with her! More coming ASAP!**

**CapitolRules: Yep, that's him!**

**Ocadioan: Yeah, the story is finished, but I also said that it's not all posted here yet. The entire thing can be found under the same name on Inheritance Forums.**

**Chapter 41: Castle.**

Zimar rode back to the castle gate in triumph, the cavalry following behind him, tracking down the sound of the battering rams. They had lost over a thousand men to kill just four hundred or so in the stronghold, most due to archer fire, but they were still a strong force, and the enemy had lost their commander. Zimar felt a sense of accomplishment, of achievement. A sense of revenge, vengeance, and justice for all that Saren had done to him.

As they trotted down the wide streets, with the tall, white buildings, Zimar began to wonder if the stronghold they had taken was only one of many, and there were in fact more similar places throughout the city. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed, as Saren hadn't been stupid. He'd thought of such a good method of defence, he was unlikely to just have one in a whole city. He was smarter than that, and Zimar would have to see to it that each and every one had been destroyed. They would lose men though, if the last one was anything to go by, but Zimar was confident that he could handle anything inside the city and still have more than enough men to defeat the troops coming from Gil'ead.

They rounded the final corner, to see the men he had left outside the castle gate still assembled outside it, though there were less than before, with the battering rams hammering at the gate. There was a tower, quite tall, above the gate, obviously containing the mechanism for opening it. Archers lined the top of it, and the walls branching out from the sides as well. The walls extended a long way to the sides, ending at the towers at the corners, and behind them could be seen the imposing shape of the inner keep. The gate itself was starting to look a bit worse for wear, but it still held against the assault, as archers fired down at them from the high walls. When the cavalry had almost reached the infantry, Zimar called for them to stop and wait, when they were still out of range of the archers. Zimar dismounted his horse, and walked to the front of the group of foot soldiers. The men parted their ranks to let him through, recognising him, and he went right up to the front, where the arrows were most heavily concentrated, as were his troops. His wards, restored after killing Saren, deflected arrows away as he emerged next to the heads of the battering rams.

They continued to pound on the gates, which weren't opening. Zimar sighed, preparing himself for a long wait.

For a long while, the gates had been giving a little, not much, but an encouraging amount nonetheless. Now, however, Zimar could tell that it would break soon, allowing the soldiers entrance. He placed his hands on the hilts of his swords, one on either side, and continued to wait for the moment when the gates would fall.

Minutes later, the moment hadn't come. The gates still held the Surdans out, and Zimar was beginning to get impatient. He probed the enchantments on it, searching for a weakness, but finding none. The enchantments had been woven by elves assisting in the construction, and they would hold firm against all Zimar could do. He cursed. At that rate breaking in would take years!

And it felt like it had been years to Zimar when, an hour later, with the sun beginning its descent, one of the rams knocked the gates open a bit. Then, both the rams were swung forwards at once, sending the gate open with a crash. Zimar drew his swords and ran in, his men behind him.

They entered a hall, not too big, a gateway through to the courtyard surrounding the inner keep at the other end, a couple of archways on either side. It was quite a simple room really, few elaborate decorations, just plain walls of stone. In the middle, there were a thousand or more soldiers, some with pikes and some with swords. Three hundred archers stood behind them, bows drawn. They fired.

Zimar charged forwards, his men following, but the arrows took a lot of them, meaning Zimar was practically on his own, as his wards had only protected him. He reached the line of pikemen, intending to dive under their pikes like he had at Dras-Leona, but they had wised up to that tactic, and some of the men were kneeling down with their pikes below the rest. He cursed, but spotted another flaw in their defence.

Jumping as high as he could, he barked, "Risa!" the magic propelling him higher, above the weapons. The soldiers yelled in confusion as he used the magic, but as he came down again, above the wooden shafts, one of them lifted his pike upwards, fast, at Zimar. As he was in the air, there was little he could do as the shaft hit him between the legs, hard, both the forces of gravity and the soldier's strength combining to create one of the single most painful moments of his life.

As he crumpled in mid-air, he swung his swords around in an attempt to break the pikes around him, so they wouldn't stab him, and it must have worked, for when he fell to the ground, trying to roll away, no more wood was brought down on his back. He staggered to his feet as more of his soldiers reached him, but was unable to take part in the fighting, as he still ached, and was unable to walk properly for a few minutes. However, the soldiers were eliminated quickly, without his help, though he had noticed that the archers had managed to flee, half going through one archway, half the other. He swore. If they were heading for other groups of soldiers, to help them, then he couldn't just advance through to the inner keep. That would risk attack from the rear. They would have to take all of the outer walls first, then advance inwards, a large area to take, and it might be a costly delay.

"Split up! Half go around the left side of the outer walls, half the right. We take all of the wall before we even think of entering the courtyard. Go through the archways; continue straight through the building until you meet with the other half. Kill all the enemies you see. Now! I'll lead the group going to the right. Move!"

The soldiers divided into two streams coming from the broken gates as Zimar walked through the archway to the right. Some of the archers were there, in a room not unlike the first, along with about two hundred swordsmen. Now having recovered from the... unfortunate blow, Zimar led the charge at them.

A man slashed, and with one hand mirroring the other, doing exactly the same movement, Zimar blocked the blow and cut deep into the man's arm at the same time. A lunge for his stomach met flesh, before Zimar finished the job with a powerful slash across the torso. The man fell back, dead, as Zimar slashed at another man, who ducked, and the blow hit his helm, tearing it off. A swift downwards slice killed him, and Zimar moved on to the next.

He fought his way through the troops with precision and power, each strike going exactly where he wanted it to. He slipped his sword into a skull just above the eye, leaving the actual eye untouched, he sliced viciously into a momentary gap that appeared in a man's armour, he blocked an axe that came for his side in just the right place to both halt the swing's momentum immediately and give him the leverage necessary to yank it out of the man's hands, before lunging forwards and stabbing him through the stomach, and thrusting his sword up into the man's neck. He fell, choking, and Zimar moved on through the mess of fighting warriors.

He broke through the lines, the first to do so, but his men weren't far behind, and the archers again started to run out of the room, along with a few of the ordinary soldiers. He ran after them, as his soldiers were slaughtering the rest anyway, and they wouldn't need help.

He threw his left sword at the back of one of the fleeing archers, killing him. He made to retrieve it from the corpse, but two of the men turned and ran at him, quickly followed by a third. Zimar cursed. He'd stupidly thrown away his weapon, and they had shields, not just swords, making them some of the soldiers who'd run, rather than the archers, armed only with short swords.

The three closed in on him, the one in the middle wielding a hammer, the other two wielding swords. Zimar noticed that the one on the left was left-handed, which would only make his blows easier, and Zimar's tougher, due to it being his stronger side that he was advancing on. He'd have to adjust his style for that man, and readjust for the others. It would be a hard fight.

The two men at the sides reached him and both slashed inwards at his chest. The man with the hammer had raised it above his head in preparation for a death blow, and he brought it down just before Zimar stepped forwards, lessening the power they were able to gain with the strikes and blocking both their swords with his. The step, and the fact that his sword was at a vertical angle, meant that the man ended up impaling his own arm on the blade of Zimar's sword. He screamed in pain, as Zimar was hit on the back with two shields at once, propelling him towards the man.

He quickly plunged a dagger drawn from his belt into the man's foot as he fell, stabbed his sword into the other leg, and the man, still screaming, kicked him to the side weakly before collapsing to the floor. Zimar rolled with the kick, not because he feared it would hurt him, but to get out of the way of any incoming blow. As he rolled, he glanced back to see the injured man on the floor, out of the fight, the sword of the left-handed man right where his back had just been, and the remaining man charging at him, sword raised.

He was forced to roll again, avoiding a stab downwards, but yet again as he tried to rise the man came at him. He blocked a blow while still on one knee, and attempted to drive the man back with a slash, but the shield blocked it and he rolled to his left to evade a blow again. Unfortunately, this placed him within the reach of the other man, the left-handed one. He received a kick, sending him onto his back between his two opponents. He swore in anger.

Two swords came at him, and he deflected one into the path of the other, before jumping up and attacking the left-handed man. Rather than instinctively stepping to his right to avoid the sword and get on the side of the shield as he usually would in a one-on-one, he had to alter his style and rely instead on a backhanded blow to deflect the sword away, step to his left, fake a stab whilst stepping left again, stabbing deep into the shoulder with his small dagger, still clenched in his left hand, and stepping to the right again as the man tried to whirl and run, plunging his sword through the man's back. At the same moment, he felt something weakly scrape down his own back. He turned sharply to see that it had been the final man's sword, and he had been killed by a soldier just before his sword had cut Zimar open.

Zimar was surprised and disheartened that he'd had to rely on others to finish off three men. His "honourable" fight with Saren had given him impressions of fairness, the likes of which he had not had since he had been a young child. It hadn't been fair that his brother had been stronger and braver than him, so he had outgrown the concept of fairness entirely, using whatever he could to try to win.

Yet that feeling had been reasserted now, after meeting his brother again, and he cleared his mind of it. He reminded himself of his saying in battle: If it's an advantage, use it! Normally that advantage was the second sword, which he retrieved from the body of the archer, still thinking. Another advantage that he utilised was magic, through his wards. Yet an extremely useful advantage to have was soldiers to watch your back, which was what had saved him just then. He cast aside all his short-lived images of a fair fight, reasserting his confidence, before leading his men on to the next room, as all the soldiers had been wiped out.

The next room was a large hall, ornate, carvings on the walls, and a large gate through to the courtyard, though it wasn't open, with the archers again, and a hundred men, at the other side of it. The archers fired, and Zimar and his men charged. The result was the same as before, the men were soon wiped out, but around forty of the archers were killed before they managed to get through the door. The Surdans regrouped, and advanced into the next room, charging at the remaining hundred archers and fifty soldiers that were stationed there.

_Less soldiers every time? Are they trying to draw us into a trap of some sort, with all their troops, further on? Or is there something else... Maybe they intend to look like they're putting up a fight here, and are actually reinforcing the keep with all they have, these men just being to delay us? I don't know_! He thought, whilst charging. They quickly killed the soldiers and chased after about twenty archers, those that had survived, into the bottom of one of the towers at the corners of the outer walls. Zimar began to hope that his former suspicions were false when he saw that there were around three hundred soldiers surrounding the doorway as he led the troops in.

He drew his swords, quickly, and deflected all the swords that were coming from his right, before stepping in that direction himself, blocking more blows and staying next to the wall. His tactic both meant that he wouldn't be surrounded and that men would be drawn away from their positions around the door by trying to go after him, and therefore more easily killed. More of his men came in, as he continued defending himself, ducking a blow that ricochet off the wall and deflected a looping overhead strike. He dashed one sword to the side before making him first attack since entering the room, lunging at a man's chest. The strike went in, but not deeply, as he had to defend another slash from the left, and his other sword was already parrying a blow, so he halted the sword mid-stab, bringing it around to block a sword coming for his chest.

By then, the Surdan troops had broken through, and were pressing forwards in the cramped conditions. Zimar took his chance, stabbing a man in the back as he turned, before pulling out the sword, blocking or parrying a couple of slashes and again getting someone in the back before reaching his own troops again, dashing through the gap he'd created before turning and advancing with the knowledge that he wouldn't be stabbed from behind, and he could concentrate on just those in front of him.

Soon, after hacking, cutting and slashing their way through the vast majority of the soldiers in the tower, the last few of the empire's soldiers had been forced back into the corners. The Surdans continued to enter the room, grouping defensively around both doorways to cut off the escape routes for the final men. Zimar himself had taken up a position in the opposite doorway to the one they had entered through, to ensure the destruction of the soldiers. The Surdans closed in, killing the last of their enemies by sheer weight of numbers.

Not one had exited the room.

The troops surged up the stairs to the top of the tower, Zimar waiting below, and after some screams and thuds were heard, the men returned, the tower taken, and they continued on to the next room, which had fifty soldiers in it. Zimar's suspicions were raised again, and when the same number of soldiers were in the next room as well, and the next, they were practically confirmed. After advancing through several more rooms, and finding only two hundred in the next tower, the Surdans found no troops at all.

Zimar could tell that they were all in the inner keep.

The Surdans had quickly advanced around the walls, meeting the other group. Upon seeing them, Zimar knew that only the keep remained. He had kept the majority of his soldiers alive, but the other group had lost a few hundred more than he had. Incompetent commanding, he guessed.

He led them back the way they'd come, his group continuing on straight, as it would be harder for the larger amount of men to turn and organise themselves than it would the smaller. Zimar headed to the front, and advanced, leading them back to the gate, their entrance point, where the biggest way into the courtyard was, and the battering rams were. The gate to the keep would be weaker than that into the outer walls, according to his spies, as the gate at the walls had been salvaged from the wreckage of Galbatorix's castle, and was in fact an original creation of the elves, from before the war, whereas he keep's gate would be much weaker, as it was newer, with less enchantments.

When he reached the room before the gatehouse, he heard a small rattle of metal coming from the side, and he quickly whirled to face a wooden door set in the wall. The soldiers halted behind him, unsure of what to do, as he walked quietly towards it, grabbed the handle, then pulled and twisted it at the same time.

The door didn't open, and the noises suddenly stopped. Zimar swore loudly. He was pulling as hard as he could, but it refused to budge. The reason suddenly struck him, and he kicked it open viciously. It opened inwards, and he barged into a small room with ten soldiers.

Taking advantage of the enclosed conditions, he drew his daggers. He deflected the first strike just enough to take it past him, moving in with a slice at the throat as a distraction, and while the soldier leant back to dodge, the other blade pierced his chest. A man swung a sword at his legs; he jumped, and landed on the flat side of the blade before stabbing into the side of the man's neck as he was jerked downwards. He ducked under a slash as he landed, scratching the man's arm with his other dagger as it passed over his head. He forced the man back with a lunge, the blade penetrating deep into his thigh, as he was still rising out of the duck and couldn't reach much higher. The man was dispatched quickly as Zimar dodged behind him to avoid another blow and stabbed him in the back.

Three down, seven to go.

Some men, Surdans, tried to enter the room too, but a man slammed the door and wedged it shut with his shield. He looked at Zimar, confidence in his eyes, as he knew that seven men could easily kill one, and even if he had no shield, he thought he'd survive. He levelled his sword at Zimar, anger on his face, and walked forwards, though the others stayed still.

It was a big mistake.

Zimar waited until he was close enough, before knocking the sword down, jumping to the right quickly, and kicking the man's arm. He yelled in shock and dropped the sword, and Zimar simply pushed his dagger into the man's neck. He could feel it grind against the vertebrae as the man died, before pulling it out.

The six men in the room slowly began to advance, cautiously, working together, closing in, as the door was hammered at by the Surdans, but it was a strong door, and it didn't look like breaking any time soon.

Zimar's daggers were not going to be good when he needed to keep them away, and he probably wouldn't be able to reach past their weapons anyway, so he quickly returned them to the belt and drew his swords.

Two lunged for his torso, and one swung for his head. Because he was both against the wall and in a corner, only three could attack at a time, and that was awkward for them.

He ducked under the blow to the head, deflected one lunge to the side, the other missed, and he slashed his free sword and sliced open one man's side. He cut off the head and blocked a backhanded blow, moving his body into the man, and his other sword into the ribcage. He pushed the corpse into a man that rushed at him before turning and dashing aside a blow that would've brained him. The man threw off the corpse, then tripped over it, and Zimar stepped backwards onto his hand and kicked the sword away as he deflected a few blows. One man yelled and rushed at him, longsword held high, and rather than simply cut off the man's arm, he stepped to the side and the longsword smashed the skull of the man on the floor. Zimar stabbed the man as he stared, aghast, at the man he'd killed, before the final two attacked again.

He kicked one in the shin, blocked a strike as the man stumbled, stepped back as he lashed out wildly, stepped in just after the backswing came around and stabbed the man through the heart. He toyed with the last man for a while, sending out weak blows, preforming slow dodges, before deciding to end it and simply sidestepping a massively overextended lunge, put his sword to the man's wrist, and sliced his skin open from there up the arm to his shoulder, before plunging it deep downwards into the man's torso, and all in one move. He walked to the door, kicked the shield from the handle, and stepped out, before blocking a dozen swords that had been hacking at the door as they came for him.

Boom. Boom.

The two battering rams hammered against the keep door. Normally, Zimar would have thought them worthy of exclamation marks, but he'd heard the noise too many times, and the normal routine of breaking in was beginning to bore him.

Boom. Boom.

The arrows glanced off his wards, coming from the archers on the walls. Stupid, ineffective things, they never did anything different. He grew bored of the monotony of waiting, longing for the real fighting to begin. He tired of the preliminaries. They were always the same.

Boom. Boom.

He tired of the sound, repeated again and again, seeming to echo within his mind.

Boom. Boom.

He tired of the crowd, milling around him, muttering to each other. Their armour constantly rattled distractingly. He hated it. His armour was silent.

Boom. Boom.

He tired of the absence of people to kill.

Boom. Boom.

He tired of the strong walls and sturdy gates in front of him.

Boom. Boom.

The walls and gates stayed, and no one came out to die.

Boom. Boom.

After a while, the gates began to give. Zimar could sense the magic within them weakening, more and more, as the battering rams continued to pound away at them. He remembered that a large, open-planned layout was present in the ground floor, with rooms for meetings, councils, and of course the Throne room, all rather lavishly decorated. The next floor consisted of smaller rooms; accommodation for nobles, ambassadors and the like; while the top was the Queen's private chambers, along with the quarters for her personal guard of specially picked soldiers and magicians, the Nighthawks. He had heard of their reputation as fearsome warriors, and hoped that few, if any, were still in the keep. Spies suggested that the majority, if not all, had been in Belatona, some staying in Dras-Leona, where they'd stopped on the way, to help with order in the streets due to larger crowds of visitors than usual. Those in Belatona had either been killed when the Queen escaped, defending her, or caught by surprise in their rooms when the Surdans had entered, and Zimar had seen their bodies in Dras-Leona. Each had been slain by a sword, each wound well-placed, each blow powerful, and he could tell that only someone strong with the blade could have killed them. He had checked with the king and confirmed that it had been the Riders.

The only remaining Nighthawks that they knew of had gone to Gil'ead with Jormundur. Orrin, in an attempt to weaken his enemies, had ordered a small force of his best spies in the armies of Jormundur to attack both them and the king-to-be, in the hope of either killing him or weakening his defence. They were yet to receive a report, but Zimar doubted it would work. Ten Nighthawks, surrounded, had managed to kill twenty-five men, alone, before dying. Eighteen would hardly overcome them and the King.

However, they had no idea exactly how many Nighthawks there were in the first place. Their guess was around fifty, but there could very well be more.

There was a crack, within the gate. Rather than wait for the rams again, Zimar yelled, "Fram!" The gates took a toll, but he didn't care. He wanted them to open. He wanted to kill!

The gates swung apart, revealing a massive hall, stairs leading up at the other end, and more space out to the sides in other rooms further on. There was enough space for thousands of soldiers to battle each other and have room to manoeuvre. The Surdans swarmed in, Zimar at the head, ready to battle!

But there was no one there.

The white marble floors with the pinkish-reddish tint were empty. Not a boot stood on them, not a sound came from anywhere. Zimar headed further in, frustrated, looking for signs of life. The army followed him into the centre of the hall. Nothing happened.

Suddenly, war cries erupted from all around them, and thousands of soldiers charged in from the sides. Each side had two men at the head, men in the armour of the Nighthawks. A few hundred more men charged down the stairs in front of them, two more Nighthawks at the head, even as the Surdans turned to the sides.

"Charge!" Zimar cried, sprinting at those in front of him, about five hundred following. The rest all ran at the forces on the side closest to them, leaving room for more men to advance through the gates. It would dye the floor even redder, Zimar thought grimly.

The sounds of fighting erupted around him as Zimar confronted the two Nighthawks. They were about his height, one with brown hair, and one with black. He drew his swords, using one as he did so to deflect a quick lunge. He blocked a stab from the other one, then swung with all his might at their heads. They ducked, and, working together, managed to push one of his swords to the side, keeping it off with a shield as the other sword was stabbed around by both of them, a sword on either side of it. He moved his weapon to the right, stepping in the same direction, manoeuvring himself so that both the brown haired man was in the way of the black, and the brown haired man had his sword behind his shield. Zimar swung for the man's head, stabbing down at his legs at the same time, but the shield went down and the man just leant to the side, before going on the offensive.

A swing, a step, and a swipe from a shield forced Zimar to lean back. He put a hand on the floor, to stop himself from falling, blocked a downwards cut, and as the Nighthawk tried to press the sword downwards at him he kicked him hard on the shin. The kick did trip the Nighthawk, but it pulled Zimar off balance too, and they both collapsed to the floor. Zimar hit him on the head with the pommel of his sword, stunning him momentarily, before switching his grip on his left sword and using it to both stab the man in the back and push himself up at the same time as blocking an attack from the black haired man. He kicked the man's shield as he rose, knocking him back a foot, and Zimar was on his feet again as the battle raged around them.

He initiated the attack, springing forwards, both swords going towards the man's sword arm. He spun, blocking both with his shield, but light on his feet, Zimar jumped to the side to avoid the counterblow. A backhanded slice with his left hand knocked the shield aside for a second, and Zimar saw an opening in the tight defence. However, rather than trying to bring the shield back around, the man used the momentum Zimar had given it to spin himself the whole way around, whirling with the sword behind his back to deflect Zimar's stab away and then launching himself forwards hurriedly with his shield. In his rush, he didn't have the time to get his sword in front of him again entirely, and Zimar simply stepped to the left, away from the shield, stabbed the man's sword arm as he brought it down before swinging his left sword in a wide arc and beheading the man.

With the death of the Nighthawk, who collapsed to the floor, the Surdan troops, invigorated, launched themselves at the last of the men on the stairs, whom they outnumbered by quite a lot. The men were soon disposed of, and Zimar glanced around the rest of the hall to see that the Surdans easily had more men, and they were pushing the defenders back. He walked slowly up the stairs as the other men re-joined the fight. He saw that only one other Nighthawk was left alive, and he wouldn't be for much longer, if the sheer number of Surdans was anything to go by. The soldiers knew what to do. Spread out and kill everyone, but not to damage the building too much. Orrin liked the look of it. He, however, had no specific orders as to what to do once he got into the keep, and he wanted to see if he could find any valuable treasures in the rooms of the Queen.

The stairs themselves seemed treasure enough, though he knew he could never hope to move them. The wooden bannisters, a handhold that was in profile the shape of a lily, that seemed to welcome your hand, to cushion it and cradle it, the gilded carvings of dragons' heads at the ends, and the stairs themselves. Made of marble, intricate patterns were carved on the sides facing someone coming up, each one different, each one unique, and each one beautiful. Though Zimar didn't generally care for such things, he could tell that they were masterfully done, and he suspected the dwarves had a hand or two in their construction.

He arrived at the top of the flight of stairs, glanced around for anything suspicious, but he saw nothing, so he continued up to the next floor. It was furnished well. From the chandelier on the ceiling above his head, through the delicate little tables with the flower displays, (probably sustained by magic, or they wouldn't get enough light,) to the comfortable carpet, made of a rich, red wool, the entire floor was a display of power, wealth, and status.

Zimar began to walk down the lone, long, corridor, towards the door at the end. It had fantastical carvings around the edge, Zimar could see that much from the other end, but when he got closer, he was amazed.

On one side of the arch, there were carvings of soldiers, human, dwarf, elf, and Urgal, all united in one large army. At their head was one man wielding a hammer. Above them flew two dragons; one larger, one smaller, but the larger had no leg. They were breathing fire upwards towards the top of the arched doorframe. Below them, but above the armies, two elves stood, one male, one female, with swords drawn. Rather inconspicuously, a small child peeked out from the side of the frame next to them, with a strange mark on her forehead, and Zimar wondered at that. A child above the soldiers in a war?

On the other side, was an even larger army, this one consisting of just humans. At their head was a man, wielding a mace. He had a strange lump on his armour. Above them, opposite the other two dragons, were two more. One was massive, larger than both dragons on the other side, and the other was roughly the same size as the smaller, though possibly bigger, and they likewise blew fire towards the apex of the doorframe. Below them were two men. One stood tall over the other, sword raised, glaring at everything. The other likewise had his sword drawn, but his head was hung, an expression of regret on what little could be seen of his face. With a slight jolt, Zimar realised that it was Murtagh, and the carving represented the war against Galbatorix.

Where the flames of the dragons met, the top of the door, they were billowing around a golden crown. On the crown, words were discernible.

_Out of the fires of war,_

_The Monarchy was forged anew._

_Let us remember what we saw,_

_And to History stay true._

Zimar suddenly realised how relaxed he was being in an enemy building. He spun around, looking for any soldiers, but none came. The place was deserted.

_They must've thrown everything they had at us, the fools. It won't help them now._

The building had that effect, he realised. The comfort, the tidiness, it relieved all the tension in your body, though that wasn't necessarily a good thing in battle, so Zimar decided to just get it over with.

With some trepidation, Zimar pushed open the door. Feeling slightly out of place, in his blood-stained armour and carrying two swords covered in gore, which he sheathed hurriedly, he stepped into the most lavish, impressive and comfortable room in the Empire.

A rose-shaped jewel, dawn-red in colour, was suspended from the ceiling. The light from the windows, though fading quite rapidly, refracted in a myriad of beautiful ways and colours, all shades of red, from maroon to a magnificent ruby red. The light covered all the furnishings, which were as expensive-looking as the jewel.

A dining table was to Zimar's right. It was carved, around the sides; no battling armies here, just a long panorama across the edge of a mouse's eye view of a meadow, all grass and wild flowers. It was a peaceful scene, lending the diner a relaxed air. There was no sign of a kitchen, so Zimar guessed that meals were brought up.

There were some chairs in front of him, arranged around a low table that was probably for drinks. Every chair was large, deep, something you just wanted to sink into and let your troubles pass. Behind them was a curtained balcony, again carved with elegant designs.

Once again, Zimar realised that he was letting down his guard, and he stood straighter, trying to give himself the impression that he was ready to do something. He continued gazing around the room.

To the left, there was a four poster bed. Its curtains were drawn across it, so he couldn't see within it, but the purple block didn't mean he couldn't see that it also was a masterful piece of craftsmanship, designs not from nature or history this time, but simple patterns. They were consistently good quality.

Zimar decided to search the room for anyone with his mind. He wasn't going to be caught off guard, as seemed all too likely at the moment. He extended his mind out to the right, scanning the room for enchantments and hidden minds, and swept his mental gaze though the room, over to the left. Until his mind reached the bed, he found little of importance or threat; a spell to hide a stain on the table, one to keep books from falling off a shelf; but the bed was a different matter.

On the bed, he found no fewer than six spells. One was to alert anyone sleeping if anyone opened the curtains that could be drawn and conceal the occupant, there were four separate spells to camouflage the hilts of four daggers set around the bed, one on each post, their wooden hilts barely discernible from the ornate wood around them, being extremely detailed themselves. The last spell actually concealed a sword, set in the headrest at the back. The handle, a perfect fleur-de-lis, protruded from the wood, looking like a part of the design, slotting in perfectly, and the blade showed itself in a downwards rise in the wood, though the line was made to look like an innocent design feature by a couple more curving away to the side, much like the shape of the fleur-de-lis above it.

He also found a consciousness.

It was a well-guarded one, yet a strange one, for its thoughts seemed somewhat twisted. Zimar didn't know quite what to make of it, for it seemed unlike any he had encountered before.

He started moving, slowly, towards the curtain, wary of anything the unknown mind might do. He didn't know what it was, and anything unknown should be treated with extreme caution. He reached the curtain, quietly took a deep breath, grabbed it and yanked it to the side, exposing a person.

It was a thirteen-year-old girl, with long, dark hair, a strange glimmering symbol on her forehead, and deep, sad, startling violet eyes. She sat, cross-legged, straight backed, right in the centre of the bed, staring at Zimar with an innocent little smile playing on her lips.

"Greetings, General Zimar Henrodsson, he who likes to call himself a Lord, leader of both King Orrin's armies and his secret corps of magicians, Rakr Sverd. I am Elva." Her voice was that of someone around three times her age, strong, dark, and serious. Like her deep eyes, her strange brow and the calm way she was staring at him, it scared him slightly, but more so did the fact that she knew exactly who he was. His mind was well guarded from invasion or attack. She smiled again.

"I know who you are because I can read people's minds. Barriers cannot stop me; I know your emotions, your fears, just how much you fear the unknown, which I am to you, and I know how your revulsion at what I am and what I say is making you want to kill me, right here, right now. I also know that you won't succeed, for I am the only person in Alagaesia who can see into the future. I sense pain two to three hours before it happens. You cannot harm me, General. Give up."

Zimar started to back away. What was this? This strange child, this Elva, who could do so much, knew so much, knew that that which he didn't know was his only true fear, and knew exactly what to say to exploit it, had power over him. He had to stop her from saying any more.

"How? Why?" She smiled again, Zimar beginning to hate that sly, soft, little twitch upwards at the side of her mouth. He got the feeling that she'd used that smile many times before. It wasn't big enough to be a grin, it didn't reveal too much emotion, and it went on for just the right amount of time; no longer than necessary, yet long enough to notice. He got the feeling she practiced it in a mirror.

"A blessing that was a curse." The statement confused Zimar even more. She knew exactly how to get to him. He had to do something.

"So, General, test me. Strike. I'm unarmed, a thirteen-year-old,-that is, in body-I can't do anything. I could be bluffing about my powers, but you'll never know unless you try." She leant her head back, exposing her throat. Zimar's hands went to the hilts of his swords.

"That's right. Take your chance. But you won't, will you? You're too scared." She'd got him angry; just as she'd hoped, he guessed; he switched his grip from sword to knife, drew it and threw it in the same motion.

She raised her hand, catching the weapon by the hilt an inch from her throat, the calm, controlled expression never leaving her face, and Zimar knew that she knew she wasn't going to be hurt.

The realisation astounded him. She had spoken the truth, she could sense pain. How could he fight that?

"Letta!" It was an action taken on the spur of the moment, the spell just flew off his lips. She couldn't have read it in his mind, as it wasn't exactly a conscious decision, it just happened. She froze in place, held by his magic. It was a spell of complete immobility, she couldn't move at all, or even speak. She was frozen, her neck still exposed. Her eyes were fixed on his, the violet orbs still being able to express emotion, but not to move. They appeared shocked, and fearful, as he took his other dagger, holding it in front of his face so she could see it. Her eyes showed recognition, and he pointed it at her throat, muttering, "Fram!" He released the hilt, and the knife hovered there, seemingly stationary. He observed it for a moment, Elva's eyes also focusing on the blade, as they could look nowhere else. He walked around it, and sat on the bed, next to Elva. He observed the terror on her face for a moment, and that in her eyes, before leaning closer and whispering in her ear.

"You are an abomination. A freak. Something that should never have happened. Whoever 'blessed' you deserves to be tortured, have an arm cut of and then be fed to a dragon. You need to be removed from this world, now. But that doesn't mean I can't have some of my own fun while doing it." He poked her, hard, and sheer rage filled her eyes. He poked her again, watching her silently fume with anger.

"Luckily for you, I am not that sort of person. Also, and possibly more importantly, I am needed elsewhere. You, however, are not, though I won't be able to be back very quickly, and it would be much more... satisfying, shall we say, to give you the most painful experience I can before you die. And the best thing is, you'll be able to feel it for a couple of hours before you'll actually feel it. Isn't that wonderful? Your own little ability will tell you what you'll feel, and it won't be pretty." He laughed for a second. "Shall I tell you what you'll feel? You can probably tell what I'm doing by now, but I'll explain anyway.

You see that little dagger up there? You do, don't you; you can't look at anything else. Well, I put a spell on it. It's moving forwards now; slowly, very slowly; so slow that it'll take about three and a half hours to reach where it's pointing. You know where it's pointing, right? Your neck." He was speaking as he would to a little child, patronising her, taunting her, and enjoying it immensely.

"That dagger will, slowly and surely, move across the space between you, who cannot move, and in around three and a bit hours, will begin to make contact with your neck. Not much, just enough that you'll feel it. But it won't stop there. It'll have all the time in your world to continue deeper. First, the tip will press your skin back a bit. As it gets further, the skin around the pressure point will begin to split, and your blood, pumped from your heart, will start to trickle out through the tiny hole. A minor wound, I think you'll agree.

However, then it will get deeper. More skin will split around the sides of the knife blade. The tip itself will continue onwards into your neck, searching out the life within you, ready to snatch it away. The first major resistance the knife will encounter will be the layer of cartilage around your windpipe. The cartilage is strong and flexible; it will bend back, like so." He pressed down on her throat, showing her how the cartilage would be forced back, and laughed at the anger in her eyes.

"The cartilage is in a ribbed structure. Did you know that? Lines of it, joined together, but weaker in the spaces between, branching out in front of the windpipe, where the air from your lungs travels, every second of your life, from your birth to your death, which will come all too soon for you.

I'm actually not sure what happens with the knife at that point. Certainly it will continue to move. The question, of course, is how. Will it cut through the cartilage easily, or will the cartilage have to flex enough to let it slip through one of the weaker gaps? It doesn't really matter very much. The result will be the same from then on, whatever happens at that point.

The dagger will enter your windpipe, through the cartilage. This may restrict your breathing a bit, creating rasping sounds as you gasp for air, which should to start with be able to get past the small obstruction, albeit with more difficulty. Now, the edges continue to rip at the surrounding flesh, causing more bleeding. This is nothing to the floods of blood which shall come later, from the jugular vein, but it is dangerous nonetheless. It will trickle down the inside of your windpipe, bit by bit; that which can get past the blade, that is, as it continues its journey inwards. As the blood trickles down your windpipe, it will begin to collect in your lungs. Given enough time for the blood to flow, it could cause you to drown while not in water, due to all the liquid in the lungs.

However, it may not have enough time for you to drown. The blade is still continuing into your petrified body, and there's still some life in you. It moves further into your windpipe, increasing the blood flow heading into your lungs. It soon reaches the back of the windpipe, by which time your breathing is becoming harder and harder, your breaths rasping out, each one harder than the last as the dagger continues its way inside of you. Then, the tip touches the back of the windpipe, a soft surface which it penetrates easily. It continues its way on inside you.

This is where things get very messy very quick.

The jugular vein runs through your neck. It is essential for your survival, as it provides the blood for your brain's energy. Without it, you black out and die. Not only that, but it is a large proportion of your blood that flows through the vein. Loosing that much blood anywhere, as more blood is pumped in every second, would kill you, even if it wasn't going to the brain. As it is, there is no chance of survival.

The tip of the dagger is now past the windpipe, penetrating deeper. It meets the edge of the vein. All veins have thin walls around them. They are so thin so they can compress and push low pressure blood back to your heart, as the power of the heart's pump fades over the time it takes for the blood to travel. In this, they are different from arteries, which have thick, muscular walls to hold back the pressurised blood. This all means that the blade quickly penetrates the wall, releasing the flow of blood.

The knife at this point has leaked blood into your lungs, so much that you are pretty much guaranteed to die from that alone. It is also blocking off a major portion of your air that is getting to your lungs anyway, and every breath you take is a struggle. This in itself is also very likely to kill you without any extra help.

Add the effects of the jugular breaking open to that, and the only question is; which will you die of? The blood gushing out of the vein will only add to the filling of your lungs, leading to drowning in your own blood, an ironic scenario, is it not, for we all know that our blood gives us life, and for it to take it away from us is simply not right, agreed?" There was no response, so he continued.

"Or, of course, the simple inability to take a breath before the vein was even cut open. The blockage in your throat, simply too small a gap for adequate air, becomes too much for you to overcome; from a lack of oxygen, you collapse-that is, you would if you weren't held in place-and die." He paused for dramatic effect. She was hanging onto his every word anyway; she didn't have much of a choice; but it made him feel in control of the one-sided conversation, as strange as it sounded.

"The last option is the quickest. The jugular is cut open, your brain loses oxygen. You feel lightheaded-you black out-and you die a few seconds later. Your brain just has too little energy to keep going, and it shuts itself down. Personally, I hope you die from the first one, for several reasons. It is an ironic situation, as I mentioned. It is the most drawn out and slow death of the lot. It also, I think, causes the most pain." He chuckled to himself.

"But I can't change what happens inside you, so I'll just have to hope for the best.

And the best part of the entire torture is that you'll be awake the whole time. Your senses won't be nullified. You'll be able to feel the cold steel sliding, slowly, into your body. The metal, cutting into your flesh. The blood going down your throat. The blade blocking your windpipe. The rush of blood, choking, retching, the gore dripping down your body, and the final blackness of the void coming closer. You'll feel it all, and be unable to do anything about it." He moved into her line of vision again. Her eyes were actually composed, accepting. Most would be full of rage, anger, despair and the like, but it seemed she had mastered herself. It just made him hate her more. She wasn't even allowing him to take pleasure in her pain.

_Maybe she would react more if I went with the other option... _Zimar thought, but he cast aside the idea as he heard the tramp of armoured feet rushing up to the first floor. The soldiers would finish their search soon, and he would be needed to lead them. He stood up and stood behind the hovering knife. It seemed to have moved a fraction, though he couldn't be sure.

"With your death, both the spells holding you in place and moving the knife forwards will stop working. You will collapse on the bed, one dagger in your throat, one in your hand, next to it." He gestured to where she still held the dagger he'd thrown.

"The cause of death will be obvious. Suicide. A knife driven straight into your neck, only your blood on the floor even when you had another knife; which was also poised to kill. No signs of a struggle. It will be painfully clear that the culprit is yourself. They won't even search for magic or do an autopsy. You will officially have killed yourself. I am going to lock this door now, and to stop those fools down there from plundering the entire upper levels. You are going to stay there and watch yourself die. Goodbye, Elva. Nice killing you." Elva's eyes showed no difference in their solid state of composure. She was resolute in that, the one thing she could actually control; it unnerved him even more, and, of course, she knew it.

Zimar smirked, a sense of accomplishment welling up inside him. With all her power over everyone, even then she couldn't stop her death. She would die, he knew it. He had found a way to kill someone who could feel pain hours before it happened, in the most drawn out and painful way he could think of.

He strode out of the door to the royal apartments, closed it, and said, "Huldir!" After the magic took a toll on his strength, he shook on the door to test it. It held, and before leaving, Zimar glanced at the carvings around the frame again. With a shock, he realised that the girl next to the two elves was Elva. Shaking off all thoughts of the girl, soon to die with a knife in her throat, he strode off down the corridor, searching the side rooms with his mind. He found no one and reached the stairs again, yelling at some Surdans who were creeping up them.

"This level is secure! No one is to come into the King's private rooms without his permission or mine! Get back to the first floor, and spread the word that this one is off limits to everyone! If you come up here again I'll have you whipped!"


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42: What Are They?**

He was tired. Bone tired. The magic, the fighting, and the spell on the knife, in the keep, which drained his energy slowly, had taken a massive toll. Moreover, the spell he'd cast, as well as just draining his energy, drained more the further he got from it. He would have to fight again, but he would make sure to stay near to the castle.

Zimar walked out of the building, across the courtyard, through the outer keep, and back to where the cavalry waited for him, several thousand men following. The keep had been fully taken, and they were going to clear up the rest of the city. He mounted his horse, which he'd left with the cavalry as he led the attack, and decided to make a small speech to the soldiers behind him. They'd doubtlessly need motivation. He turned the horse to face them, and gathered himself, taking a breath.

"Men, you have fought well, and taken the best defended place in the Capital! It is a great achievement, and I applaud you for it. You have given us a certain victory!" Cheers rung out from the host, and they hit their shields with their swords, but Zimar quieted them with a raised hand.

"However, this is not yet a full victory. A large portion of the city still holds out. While the tides have turned in our favour, they have not quite washed over the beach in full. Our waves need more strength where they meet the white sands that are our enemies. Thus, we, the waves that struck at and crushed the strongest part of this beach, the rock cliff in the centre, need to now wash back off the cliff and take our part with the rest of the ocean once more, adding the much-needed strength to our waves of war. We can finish this battle in full. It is inevitable that we succeed now, just as it is inevitable that the tide will wash over the beach tomorrow, however, unlike the tide, it is not inevitable that we shall sink back into the ocean and expose the sand once more. That event is in fact perfectly evitable; as it depends on how many of you soldiers, the individual water droplets that make up the waves of our attack, without whom we would lose all strength, survive taking the remainder of the beach that is this city. If we have enough strength, we shall even be able to drive back the conflicting force of the waves from Gil'ead and Palancar Valley, even as they come with all the force they can muster. We shall end this beach, we shall retain our advantage of numbers, and we shall prepare for the assault, TODAY!" He raised his swords as he shouted the last word, and the cheering from the soldiers was loud as they roared in unison, a force to be reckoned with.

"Now, my good men, spread out into this city. Head to the northern side, where their resistance will doubtlessly be, as we entered from the south. Assist our fighters in any way possible, search buildings, take out any enemy soldiers you find, and be on your guard for attacks of any kind. They've had time to prepare for this battle. They're in their strongest city, and you can bet they've prepared tricks of some kind. Go! Find them, kill them all!" The soldiers cheered as he shouted the orders, moving apart, confidence on their faces. The speech had worked.

Zimar hated making speeches. The people should be able to understand what to do and how much it mattered without someone telling them, and it always had to be him. Why couldn't the morons just learn some sense of duty without a stupid little announcement about it? Even if someone was awarded something, like a new title or rank, in Orrin's army, they had to make a speech. You couldn't just say thank you, or nod to the guy to show your appreciation. You had to talk about how much it meant to you, or how far you'd come, which usually meant an anecdote, which Zimar hated. Personal stories were your own, and he didn't want to share any of his. He'd avoided the whole "speech" thing whenever he could, once even controling a man to make him pretend to attack Orrin as a distraction, then kill himself. It was a funny anecdote in itself, but he declined telling anyone else, for obvious reasons. Orrin would be livid.

Turning back to the cavalry, who had also listened to the speech, he realised that he would have to make another one to them, explaining what they were going to do, or it would seem like he cared more for what the infantry were doing, and they would be displeased if he were to show favouritism. Sighing, he prepared himself again.

"Cavalry, while they go to simply take the beach, we shall be assaulting another cliff, albeit a smaller one. This shall be much like that which some of us attacked earlier, and I can see its flag even now, above the rooftops. We go to take it, and to kill all those that remain inside! Follow me, to victory!"

Again they rode through the large streets, the sun, beginning to set, though it would not descend under the horizon for a couple of hours, casting the city of white marble in an orange light, though not quite red yet. It wasn't that late.

Admittedly, some of the city was already dyed red, one patch of the street having scatterings of the colour splattered across it, but such places had nothing to do with the sun, and everything to do with the fighting. They were patches of blood, quite common as they rode through the streets towards the stronghold where the flag of Nausada's monarchy still flew. It was quite easy to find the location, due to the well organised layout of the city, and they soon came across it. It was quite near the castle walls.

Three hundred Surdans on foot, pressed against a wall, came into view as Zimar turned a corner. A few hundred more lay dead on the ground, arrows sticking out of them, and Zimar realised that they'd definitely found the stronghold. It had been almost the exact same scenario as the last one. He led the cavalry to the wall and peered around it. Immediately, several arrows were fired towards him, and he jerked back-his wards would've protected him, but he didn't want to lose any more energy-though not before he'd seen what he needed to. It was a tall building, archers in the windows, a large courtyard in front, with even more men, around five hundred, in three rows in front. They had swords and shields at their feet, and bows in their hands.

It was so eerily similar to the last stronghold, Zimar almost expected to see Saren at the head.

He turned to his cavalry. "Follow me around the corner and charge at the men. Once as many as possible are dead out in the courtyard, we dismount and enter the building, killing all we can. Charge!"

He spurred the horse on around the corner, quickly picking up his speed to a gallop, the thunder of the horses' hooves close behind him, though he was faster. A volley of arrows shot towards him, his strength decreasing rapidly as they were deflected away from him, however, a few hit his horse, and it fell to the ground, sending him tumbling off. His wards kept off the worst of the impact, but his energy levels decreased, leaving him practically gasping for air as he struggled to get to his feet. By the time he did, the cavalry had caught up with him, and another horse fell almost on top of him. He jumped to the side, avoiding the corpse of the horse as it collapsed next to him, before having to jump practically on top of it as another horse thundered past. Shock raced through his body as he realised that even more horses, whether they liked it or not, were heading straight for him.

He was forced to sit on the ground in front of the dead creature, arms over his head, until the horses stopped, meaning that the men had defeated the archers on the ground and were dismounting.

Zimar got up, slowly, stiffly, and walked forwards through the mass of horses, saying, "Make way!" The men tried to get their horses to move to the sides upon seeing him, but several times whilst walking through the crowded group, he reacted just in time to avoid getting kicked by one of the hooves. He would elbow each horse that tried it as he went past them, which mostly had no ill effects; but one horse did snort in his face. He drew his sword, and it pranced back a bit, before he slashed a small cut on the side of its face, despite the rider's protests. He didn't want to kill it, as horses were valuable to the army, so he turned and walked towards the building again.

He felt himself be yanked back, hard, by the thin mail shirt, though it didn't break, and he didn't fall. He pulled free and whirled around to see the horse, lips peeled back in a manner that was actually a bit frightening, despite the fact that the teeth were blunt and short, more molars than canines.

He grabbed its harness, and pulled its face closer, putting his sword at its throat. It froze in terror and tried to break away, but he held on, deciding what to do.

_I need to show it not to mess with me again, but I shouldn't kill it. If I show it that I could, but don't, it should work._

He pressed the sword into its neck a bit, the blade drawing blood, before moving the tip up and to the side, giving it a long slash, but not a deep one. It reared up, backtracking as it did so, waving its hooves to ward him off. Its rider fell to the floor. He turned and continued heading towards the front of the Surdan army.

He emerged at the doorway to the house, expecting to see the men swarming in, but they were staying relatively still. A good deal were in the corridor, not very far down, just next to the first door, crowded around it. He walked up to them.

"What's going on? Break into that door and kill all you find there!" They shook their heads, and one started to talk to him.

"Sir, there's a slight problem. We can't all go in at once, sir, and they shut the door after one person goes in. There are more than one in there, sir, and none of us can fight outnumbered. The other rooms are the same. We can't do anything." Zimar cursed.

"As a test, you, go in." He pointed to the man who'd spoken, a strong, experienced looking veteran. "We'll try to hold the door open." The man gulped, nodded, and smashed the door open with his shield. He charged in, and a man made to follow, but the door was already being shut, and they heard curses coming from inside, followed by a thud.

"Well, my turn now. This time, try to follow the moment I go in." Zimar readied himself to attack, drawing his swords. He kicked the door open and stormed in, his anger and determination giving him strength. The door was slammed as another man had got into the doorway, and the man was pressed into the frame, sword on the other side. He was practically useless as the pressure was still applied to the door.

It was entirely dark in the room. Zimar had no idea how many men were concealed in the darkness, or where they were, so he hacked at the space behind the door, where he knew at least one person was, whilst waving the other sword at the darkness, trying to deflect incoming blades. The blow was blocked, and as his other sword made contact with something hard, an incoming blow, he guessed, a kick slammed into his side. His back smashed into the wall next to the doorway, where a little light came through, and as he stood, gazing around into the black, he realised that it made him visible to them, though he couldn't see them. He heard a blade whistle through the air and heard a step; he instinctively ducked; something hit the wall above his head. He lashed out with both his swords, but one met a shield and the other met nothing. They glinted and flashed in the light from the corridor.

The man trapped in the doorway grunted in pain as a sword was stabbed around the door, right into his leg. He flinched back, the invisible men on the other side pushed, and the door was slammed shut.

Zimar just stood still, waving his swords around in front of him to ward off attackers and hoping his night vision would come into practice soon, though he knew it would take ten minutes. He instinctively ducked and moved to the side upon hearing a grunt in front of him, and a sword clashed with the stonework again. He dived towards the noise, slashing out at knee height. A man screamed; a body crumpled. He lashed out at the floor as he got up, his sword sinking into flesh, before stabbing at the man again. He couldn't be sure if he was dead, as he had no idea where he'd hit. Upon leaning and feeling the body, hearing mutters around him, questioning as to what'd happened, he found the neck and slid a sword into it. He kicked the body away, and heard a curse as it hit someone. He launched himself in that direction, with a yell of, "Die, Surdan!" to confuse the man, slicing at the air with a sword, then the other. The first knocked a weapon to the side, the second whacked it out of a hand, and he stabbed straight, at chest height; his blade penetrated a ribcage, and a body collapsed to the side. He turned to face the room again.

He had no idea where any of them were, apart from the fact that there were a couple near the door. Which was...?

To the left.

He ran in that direction, swords extended in front of him. His footsteps were easily audible, and he heard movement ahead, as if people were preparing to work together, trying to work out a strategy, though without talking. Then, all was silent for a second.

Zimar jumped to the side, anticipating a blow and avoiding the possibility of it hitting him, before turning diagonally to his left and leading in with an elbow at face height, driving a sword forwards at stomach level as well. His elbow cracked into a nose, and a man then crumpled over his sword. He shot a knee up to where he thought the head would be, and was rewarded with a groan and the sound of someone collapsing. Holding his left sword diagonally, he plunged the right one downwards, and it connected with something but was dashed aside by a blade. Zimar felt an impact on his sword as he lashed out with a foot in the dark, and it hit someone's arm. The arm jerked away, and there was a cry of dismay as some metal hit the ground a way away. Ignoring the disarmed man on the ground and the scrambling sounds coming from him as he tried to get away, Zimar sliced out into the dark, and again a sword collided with another. However, Zimar struck with his other blade as well, and he felt it sink deep into someone's side. He stepped forwards before the man collapsed, stabbing upwards, and when it plunged through flesh he knew he had pierced the man's throat.

Footsteps were coming up behind him, but he ignored them for a second as he ran to where the disarmed man was frantically searching for his sword, making a lot of noise in the process. He slammed his foot into the source of the noise, and there was a grunt of pain. He stabbed his sword at where the grunt had come from with all his strength, and there was a scream; then nothing.

He spun around, both swords in front of him; one vertical, one horizontal, crossing in the middle. A blade crashed into the point where they met, and a man yelled, "He's here!" Three other sets of feet were heard, running towards the shout, and Zimar cursed. The man's blade was still touching both of his; he raised the vertical sword and smashed it down in front of the other so hard that it fell out of his hand, and the man's sword flipped out of his hand, the hilt hitting Zimar's chest. Having dropped the other sword, Zimar caught the hilt of the man's and drove it through his torso, before bending and picking up his own. The blade's edge cut him as he felt for it, but he lifted it up and stemmed the blood flow with a word as the other people got closer.

He made a couple of loud steps to the left, and their footsteps changed direction, so he made another noisy step and quietly took a couple of paces to the right.

The result was humorous.

With a clatter, the three men crashed into each other, and one screamed in pain as a sword hit him. The soldiers yelled in anger and, from the sound of it, began to hack at each other. Zimar decided to take a break for a second or two and get his breath back. By the looks of it, they'd kill each other soon anyway.

He waited for the sounds to stop, wondering how much strength he had left for magic. It wasn't very much, he was sure of that, and he wouldn't be able to fight for much longer.

_Magic..._

Suddenly, a thought struck him. He almost laughed out loud at himself for not having thought of it before, and just said, "Brisingr!"

A werelight flickered into existence, a bright red flame the colour of blood. It illuminated three people on the floor, locked in a struggle to the death. Two were dead, of a smashed skull and a stab to the ribcage, and one was barely breathing, a sword sticking out of his stomach. Zimar mercifully cut his head off, and gazed around the room.

It was a simple room, no furniture, just four plain grey walls. There were a total of eight corpses in the room, counting the first three, but not counting four Surdan men near the door. Many were cut in more than one place, which was unusual for Zimar's victims, though it had been in the dark. He walked to the door, pulled it open, extinguished the werelight as he exited, and gazed around at the men, who seemed awestruck.

"What? I'm a magician and a general, I'm obviously going to be better than you. Now move aside, on to the next door!"

He walked a few metres down the corridor, to the next door. More of the Surdans followed him into the building as others shot at the archers in the windows or held their shields over their heads to keep off the deadly shafts.

Zimar stared at the door coldly, slammed his fist into it and leapt in, yelling, "Brisingr!" The light seemed to stun the men for a second, and the pause allowed two more men to follow after Zimar before the door was shut. One turned and plunged his sword at a man holding the door, but he ducked and the blade went through it. Ignoring both that and the men, Zimar launched himself at two soldiers, blades whirling, stabbing a man in the chest and deflecting a blow with one sword, while lashing out at knee height with the other, before turning the stab into a sideways pommel strike to the temple and impaling the man in the chest as he collapsed. He whirled around and blocked a blow, grabbed a shield, span the man around and stabbed him through the back. A couple more men broke through the door to help, as one of the others was killed, but another of them was beheaded a second later. It was three on three, counting Zimar, but Zimar went for two.

Twisting to avoid a stab and bringing up a sword into a man's forearm. The blade finding its way between the two bones. Pulling the weapon and the man falling towards him. A simple strike through the heart. Shoving the corpse onto the other man. Stabbing him in the eye as he flailed at it to get it off. It was all too easy for Zimar.

The other men had killed the last man, and Zimar led them out of the room, pausing to look at the hole in the door, left by a sword. The door was quite thin, flimsy even, and he emerged from the room furious, gazing around at the soldiers assembled in the hallway.

"Are you all idiots?" He asked, loudly. There was muttering here and there, but the general tone was one of surprise and denial. He asked again.

"Are you all idiots? We come here for war against our enemies. We want to kill them, and they hide behind doors. You try to enter them, but you are quickly killed off, one by one. So what do you do?" They were looking around at each other sheepishly, but they didn't answer.

"I'll tell you what you did. You called in the general, and relied on him to kill eight men in utter darkness. You didn't try to come in after the first of you was driven back. I heard no shouts or pushing at the door. You stood there, listened, and left me to my fate. More than that, before I came, you had no clue what to do! You, the men with the weapons and the numbers, foiled by a simple door. Is the solution not obvious?" They were staring at the floor.

"Look at me when I speak, you lazy dogs! Do you see this here? This hole, in this door? It was caused by a sword. Now, think. If you want to get through something, and it doesn't let you past, or around, then the obvious solution is to try to break it. These doors are flimsy! Look!" He punched the door with a fist and it splintered a bit. He quietly used a spell to heal his hand, weakening himself further, as they glanced around at each other. _I should've used a sword for that! I can't afford to lose any more strength_.

"A sword would hack through it with ease! The rest of these rooms you can deal with yourselves, with no help from me. If you can't solve a simple problem like that then you are not worthy of assistance. Now go, all of you, hack down the doors, and do not leave until every last one is killed!"

It wasn't that they weren't worthy of the help-well, it wasn't just that. Zimar needed to recover his energy. He'd been fighting all day. He needed to sit down, though all the horses looming over him weren't exactly friendly-looking, nor did he like things being taller than him. It reminded him of being small, so he stood.

The soldiers still on horseback were shooting with their bows at the soldiers at the windows, and though they had less to aim at, the men at the windows were almost all dead, only a few sometimes popping up to shoot at the men on horseback, causing a few to still fall, including a man just in front of Zimar, who fell with an arrow in his eye. Zimar quickly jumped up, freed the body from the saddle, and mounted the horse himself. He sat, breathing deeply, regaining his strength, until he was strong enough to concentrate.

By that point, the only archers left were the ones on the top floor, as the soldiers had killed those lower down, but even as Zimar watched, a body was flung out of one of the windows on the top floor, followed by sounds of fighting. A short while later, men began to emerge, and Zimar forced his new horse through the crowded horses to the entrance of the courtyard. The troops assembled behind him, and he led them out, towards the entrance of the city, where they could prepare for a charge around the walls.

The sun had sunk even further by that time, bathing the city in a deeper shade of orange.

Zimar and his cavalry galloped down a road, in the castle's shadow, looking down the streets into the city for signs of troops. They had seen nothing for a while now, and were beginning to come around to the rear of the castle.

They'd spent a while just clearing the streets around the stronghold and the palace, but now they were heading to the as of yet unconquered side of Ilirea.

The sun now cast a glow over the city that was not quite orange, not quite red, but a mixture between the two. It gave the city a stained sort of air, as if something was there which shouldn't be, something that changed the Capital as an entirety to something different to what it was before. It was a strange, unnerving sight, that looked like it was not meant to be. By that time, it was just more than three hours since the spell he'd cast on Elva had taken effect. She would be killed, he guessed, in ten minutes or so. He'd be able to tell when by when the spell stopped taking his energy.

Sounds of fighting up ahead were heard, and Zimar increased the pace, passing three roads before turning left and seeing the cause. They halted, watching.

Down a long road, leading to a small, black outcrop of rock at the end, possibly left over from the destruction of the citadel during the war with Galbatorix, were a few thousand men. They wielded spears for the most part, and they were killing about a hundred Surdan men with ease. At the head, fighting, leading, were two boys, with a wild, almost feral, look about them as they fought their way through the soldiers, each wielding nothing but small knives. One hurled a black dagger into the neck of the last of the soldiers, and the men reformed their formation, spears pointing out to the cavalry.

Zimar called out to the soldiers," Surrender or die, for you cannot defeat us!" One of the boys at the head simply hissed; the other shook his head and spoke.

"Spears kill horses, stupid man, and we kill you!" Zimar laughed in glee. How could two mere boys expect to defeat him with knives? The concept was ridiculous.

"You, kill me? I'd like to see you try! I'm the General of the Surdan army, and you are children!" Their ears seemed to prick up at that, and the same one replied.

"But General, you are tired, you have fought all day, spells feed off your energy. We, however, are strong and fresh, though not as young as you may think. You could not defeat us if you tried." Zimar was riled by the reply, and he trotted forwards, motioning the army to stay back.

"I could defeat all if I tried, and I could certainly defeat two such as you. Why, if you aren't as young as I think, you must be midgets!" The one who had not yet spoken hissed, loudly, then challenged him.

"Then, General Zimar, as I believe your name is, prove it. Try. Step down off your high horse and come down to earth with the realisation that you are not invincible, then the realisation that you're actually six feet under the earth. We shall kill you, without help from anyone. Is that fair?" He bared his teeth in a small smile, revealing pointed incisors.

"You are the ones that are down to earth, look at you! You're tiny. However, I comply with your conditions. Once I have killed you, my men will charge. Then we'll see who's strongest." Both the children, or midgets, or whatever they were, grinned, and Zimar dismounted.

"You just made a big mistake," he heard one whisper. He ignored the remark and drew his swords, striding forwards towards them.

"Then prove me wrong," he challenged.

Zimar was extremely confident. Though he was low on energy, and he had been for the last hour or so, swords, in open combat, would always beat daggers, and experienced warriors would beat kids any time. Though they were skinny, or at least, one was, and they seemed to radiate a sort of aura of strength, they were still children. Or at any rate they were small. That had to count for something.

They positioned themselves about two metres apart from each other, and Zimar, swords held casually, walked closer, observing them.

One of them was quite wide, with a broad, flat sort of face. He had strange, yellow eyes, a dagger of silver in his hands, and a hard stare that seemed to penetrate right inside Zimar.

The other was skinnier, the one who had hissed. He had cold, ice-blue eyes, a black dagger in one hand, and the hilt of another in his belt. The hilt was as yellow as a sunset.

"So, what are your names? I want to know who I kill." Both the midgets glanced at each other, then nodded.

"You may call me Yelloweyes, as I have yellow eyes."

"I am known to some as Solembum, but I won't tell you why." The thinner one grinned. Zimar nodded, though curious, and advanced towards them.

"Die!" The shriek came from Solembum, and they both leapt at his face. He quickly raised his arms, swords slashing, but Solembum's black blade blocked, and Yelloweyes kicked off his arm before the blow landed, doing a flip and landing on his feet as Solembum did the same on the other side.

The two of them circled around Zimar, and he tried to manoeuver out from in between them, but they countered whatever he tried, so he just leapt forwards, striking with tired blows at Yelloweyes on the basis that he'd find it harder to dodge, but each one was blocked, and he whirled around just in time to see Solembum's blade coming for his head. He yelled, "Letta!" Solembum's blade stopped, and he fell to the floor, on hands and knees. Zimar dived to the side to avoid a blow from Yelloweyes, and Solembum stood, anger on his face.

"Magic! Foolish human, that's not playing fair!" He sent a mental strike into Zimar's barriers, as did Yelloweyes, and the walls cracked. Zimar built up his barriers again, made of memories of the strength of Orrin's army as it had marched. However, something that he hadn't anticipated happened as his barriers weathered the attacks.

Three other magicians entered the assault on his mind, all relatively weak, but combined with each other, and Yelloweyes and Solembum, the mental attacks were almost as strong as Saren's had been. Zimar clutched his head, staggering, and muttered, "How?" The two people in front of him laughed. They weren't even concentrating fully as they hammered away at his mind.

"Did you truly believe that Saren and his five men were all the magicians in the Capital? There were twelve, counting Saren; this was their refuge, the final six, where they guarded those in the keep, and some outside of it, from magical attack. However, now, they shall stop assaulting your mind"-with that, three attackers withdrew-"and we shall continue this ourselves."

Yelloweyes ran forwards, slashing sideways at Zimar's arm, and as he dashed the strike to the side, Solembum leapt straight at Zimar's chest. Zimar swept a blade across his torso, but Solembum seemed to shrink, to change, and the blade merely ripped through the small shirt, no longer supported by a body. Something small and hairy shot out of the hole at the top, grew as it crossed the space between them, and something latched onto Zimar's mail shirt. It clawed and scratched at him, got a grip on the shirt, and as Zimar just stared at it in shock, it drew back its mouth, in which it held a black dagger, and plunged it forwards into Zimar's shoulder just before he knocked the creature away.

_What is he?_

He stumbled back, blood dripping from the wound as he pulled the knife out. It was the same one Solembum had been using, and the creature was running at him again, a blur of orange striped fur. He raised the sword in his good arm, but something crashed into his back and he fell forwards. He turned his head to see Yelloweyes, in human form, crouching on his back, a feral smile on his face, and when something wrapped itself around Zimar's neck he saw it was a tail, sprouting from Yelloweyes. He rolled to the side, throwing him off before he could stab, and stood up, looking at the two of them.

_What are_ they?

"We are werecats, human. I see the shock in your eyes, but you must have heard of us, even if in stories. And now, we must seem all too real, no?"

Solembum was back, but, like Yelloweyes, he had a tail. It came up to his belt, feeling, and he grasped the sunset dagger in it, raising the black one, which he had picked up off the floor where Zimar had dropped it. Yelloweyes still held the silver dagger, and they both launched mental attacks at his barriers. He was barely able to stand after the combined assault, and when he looked up and saw that they were running at him again, he'd had enough of them.

"Charge!"

The cavalry thundered forwards, and Zimar grinned. They couldn't do anything about _that!_

How wrong he was.

Yelloweyes continued to run at him, becoming more cat-like as he did so, running on four legs, but retaining a human hand to hold the dagger. Solembum ran at the horses, in full cat form, leapt up to one of their necks, and plunged the yellow dagger in with his tail. A wave of wind and fire exploded outwards from the spot, blasting back the horses, Zimar, the Surdan soldiers on the horses, but not Solembum, Yelloweyes, or any of their soldiers. From the floor, Zimar spotted a few magicians chanting, turning the wave away from their soldiers, strengthening it, sending it crashing back into the cavalry. Zimar's men lost momentum, and as horses collapsed to the ground, they found it hard to get past the barrier. They had lost their major advantage over the foot soldiers that faced them; their speed.

Solembum leapt back at Zimar, as did Yelloweyes. Yelloweyes leaped fluidly over Zimar's swing, ducked the stab, and plunged his dagger into Zimar's other shoulder before Zimar swept him away with an arm, sending the werecat tumbling, and sending blood pouring out of his arm. When he was close enough, Solembum stabbed into Zimar's arm with the black dagger as he tried to slash at his side. Zimar screamed in pain and released the sword, and Solembum stabbed into the other arm as well, as he attempted a last, futile attack. The werecat hissed down at him as he lay, disarmed, with a dagger above his heart. He didn't have the strength for a magical attack, not now, especially with the spell that was still draining his energy, though even as he thought that, the drain he felt from two spells stopped abruptly.

Elva was dead. The knife had pierced her throat.

"You should not have challenged werecats, General, for we are more powerful than you know." With that statement, Solembum invaded his mind, sifting through all the memories of his past, and especially Orrin's plans. Zimar let them go. They wouldn't help him now, and he knew it. His strength was almost exhausted entirely; he should've stopped fighting after Elva, and he had paid the price. He was as good as dead anyway, with the knife on his chest. His soldiers weren't fast enough to save him; and even if they were, Yelloweyes was taking care of all those that got near, jumping from saddle to saddle with incredible agility.

Solembum left his mind, grinned, and plunged the dagger deep into Zimar's chest.

The last thing he saw was Solembum licking his lips. Behind him, cavalry charged into a wall of spears.

Solembum glanced around at the battlefield, searching for Yelloweyes. He saw him standing, poised, ready to leap up to a saddle, and signalled to him, waving his tail. The werecat hissed in frustration, nimbly jumped through the legs of a charging horse, and spoke to Solembum mentally.

_What? Cannot we fight? _His tone was angry, and Solembum decided to placate the older werecat.

_Look, our work here is done. We are only putting ourselves in danger unnecessarily, and I have found what we need._ Yelloweyes growled in acknowledgement.

_Aye. This battle is over. We go now to Jormundur, to show him your information. _Solembum nodded, put the black dagger in a small sheath and grabbed the sheath in his tail, changing his colouring to black and yellow as he did so, to camouflage the weapons. Sneaking out as two innocent cats would not work with daggers clutched in his tail. Likewise, Yelloweyes shifted from his usual tabby colouration to a thicker one, though he made it black. White cats were unusual, and silvery ones even more so, so he had changed to a colour that would hide him well, and he wrapped his tail well over his silver dagger.

The two werecats left the soldiers to their fate. Whether that battle would be a victory for the Surdans, they knew not, only that the magicians would fall eventually, and they didn't plan to be there when it happened.

_Two young children ran through a dark street. One was younger, one was older, and they carried sticks as swords. The younger child was chasing after the older, anger all over his face, and the older one was laughing, easily keeping ahead._

_"I hate you! I _hate _you!" The cry came from the younger child, who, still sprinting, waved two sticks at the older. The older laughed again._

_"But it's true! You're weaker than a worm!" He turned, quickly, and whacked the other boy over the head with a stick. The boy cried out, and threw one of the sticks at the older child. It was hit to the side, earning him another smack on the head, and the older boy walked off, leaving the younger crying, clutching his head._

_The children, older now. One clearly a teenager, the other around ten or eleven. They were in the streets again, and soldiers were walking down the middle, inn bright armour with flames stitched onto the chest. People lined the edges, cheering for the procession, though it was obvious that some didn't want to, and one man wasn't cheering at all._

_Two soldiers separated from the group and grabbed the man, accusing him of 'Not supporting the Empire.' The man was dragged off, screaming, and no one was cheering any more, that is, until the soldiers called for it and continued marching down the streets._

_The younger boy stared after the man who had been taken, and said, quietly, "Traitor." He received a few uneasy glances from both the other people in the street and his own family, who were standing around him, but a passing soldier patted his head jokingly._

_He smiled._

_When the soldiers had passed, the crowd began to disperse, but the older boy, who stood behind him, slapped him around the back of the head. He yelled and turned quickly._

_"What was that for?"_

_The older boy grinned sarcastically, contempt in his eyes and his voice. "Nothing, Zim-zim. Nothing at all. Just a bit of fun, right? Fun. Just like that man they took is having. He's having a real good time, you know that? He might even get to meet the King." The hate in the boy's voice was obvious, gaining him a few glances as well, but ones of caution, not suspicion. The father put his hand on the boy's shoulder in warning, and he stopped talking, but the younger boy spoke to him, angrily._

_"Don't call me that! Don't talk to me like a child!" The older boy was annoyed, and his reply showed it._

_"Maybe you should stop acting like a naive little kid then!" The older turned and strode off. The parents didn't say anything, then they too turned and walked off after the boy, once again leaving the younger child alone in the street._

_Inside a large, comfortable house, the family sat around a square dinner table. There was food on the table; lamb, roast potatoes; and they were all eating hungrily._

_Over the table, the older boy spoke to the younger. "Look, brother, you know what we've been telling you about the Empire. It isn't a good thing."_

_Though his tone was gentler, the other child still fired up. "You say it's bad, but I see no evidence of that here! We live in comfort here, safe from rebels and bandits!" The brother was about to reply, but his mother cut in._

_"You've been listening to the King's speeches again, haven't you?" She spoke in a sad, world weary voice. The older boy ignored her comment and went on._

_"Rebels who try to free us, and bandits ushered in by Galbatorix's reign! If he hadn't killed the Riders-"_

_"Who were old, fat, and corrupt!"_

_"Not as old, fat and corrupt as he is! He restarted the bloody slave trade!"_

_"Wouldn't you like to have someone who follows your every command?"_

_"That's irrelevant! Would you like to be forced to follow someone's every command?"_

_"That wouldn't happen to us, thanks to the King!"_

_Their voices were rising, the anger building up. Their parents were silent, glancing from one to the other as they spoke._

_"But it would happen to others! Don't you feel sympathy for any other than yourself?"_

_"And why should I? I don't feel their pain, I feel mine, I'm not some sort of freak!"_

_"Have you no respect for the value of human life? You're no better than Galbatorix!"_

_"None are better than Galbatorix, which is why he is such a good King!"_

_"He is no good King! He ended the golden age of peace in Alagaesia! He killed the dragons and Riders!"_

_"The Riders were both weak and elves, and the dragons were brutes. They deserved to be killed, every last one!"_

_"They allowed the humans to build, to prosper. They built this city, before Galbatorix changed it!"_

_"For the better!"_

_"For the better? Are you mad? Look at it! The citadel is dark and foreboding, squatting over the city like a vulture over its nest, even as Galbatorix does. Soldiers march the streets, his spies lurk in the taverns. Three hundred foot walls block out the sun and keep us in. Before it was an elegant elf-city of white rock and gleaming towers! How is this an improvement?" Both boys were shouting by then, the volume of their voices quickly increasing. Their parents were now glancing around warily, as if fearful of spies in the middle of their own home._

_"The walls, soldiers and spies keep the Varden out!" There were tears beginning to form on the edges of the younger boy's eyes as he spoke._

_"Which is a bad thing. The Varden want to free us from the King and return the peace! What have we told you, or are you just too stupid to understand the truth?"_

_"Shut up!" The younger boy was crying now, and he jumped out of his chair and ran upstairs. The parents turned to the older boy._

_"You should probably apologise to him. He isn't happy." But the older boy just shook his head._

_"You saw what happened when I tried to explain. He yelled at me. I give up on him. It isn't worth it if he never listens."_

_Both boys were now in their teens. The older appeared to be sixteen or seventeen; the younger around thirteen. They were formally dressed, in a large hall, crowded with a lot of people in similar attire. Their parents were a way away, talking to a number of people. They seemed to be hosting the event._

_The older brother was gazing into the crowd, as if looking for something, while the younger just stared at his feet. The older boy seemed to spot what he was looking for, and made to walk off into the crowd, but he turned and said, "Do not follow me." Not waiting for his brother to reply, he walked away._

_After a moment's hesitation, the younger followed, curiosity on his face._

_The older boy was walking forwards through the crowd, around various people, through groups, heading in one direction. His brother was following as fast as he could. The older boy edged between two people, almost barged through three more, and reached where he was headed._

_He stopped, and smiled at a beautiful girl in a red dress. "You look great tonight, Eitay."_

_She smiled back. "You look good too, Saren."_

_"Thanks. Um, could I... speak to you in private for a minute or two?" She raised her eyebrows and nodded._

_"Okay then. Come, we can talk here. She led him out of sight behind a curtain, probably leading to a balcony, as the younger boy emerged from the crowd._

_He had heard the whole conversation._

_He walked up to the curtain, sneered, and grabbed the edge. He waited a few seconds, listening, then yelled and yanked back the curtain, wrapping it around himself to hide as everyone turned._

_Behind the curtain was a balcony, overlooking the lower parts of the city, and on the balcony were Saren and Eitay. He was kissing her, and she was letting him, relaxing into it, but when she saw that everyone was looking, she screamed lightly, pushed him away, and ran back into the group of people, sobbing. He stared after her, and everyone stared at him with angry eyes. Saren glanced at the curtain, and his eyes narrowed. Walking forwards, he made as if to go past it, but he executed a perfect spinning heel kick right into the curtain. There was a cry of pain, and the younger boy fell out, holding the back of his head._

_The older boy grabbed him by the back of the shirt and pulled him up. He spun him around to face him, and lifted him up by the neck. The boy struggled, but he couldn't get free of the grip._

_"You scrawny little rat," The boy growled as his brother continued to try to escape, but his efforts were in vain. "You deserve to die for that. If there's one thing guaranteed to get someone angry, it's interrupting their bloody first kiss. I don't care what I'll have to do to get my revenge, but I will. Even if I have to follow you for the whole of your life, I'll return the favour when you have yours. If you ever do, that is. Although, looking at you, that doesn't seem all too likely, now does it, you smelly little slimeball?" Holding him with one hand, Saren punched his younger brother in the stomach, then let go whilst bringing up a knee. The boy crumpled, and Saren spat in his face and walked off, leaving all the guests staring after him._

_His parents, at the other side of the hall, were oblivious, to it all._

_The younger boy peered over the edge of the balcony, watching guests leave below. The last to go was the young woman in the red dress. The older brother, Saren, walked after her._

_"It's not my fault what happened! This can still work out, right?" The girl cut him off before he could say any more._

_"Look, Saren, I like you, but not that much. Yes, I did kiss you; yes, I enjoyed it. Yes, maybe I shouldn't have gone when I did, but I was embarrassed. I wasn't ready to get into that sort of relationship, and the moment I did, it was exposed. With time, it would have worked, but time was not given to us. If it did continue, after that, everyone would consider it forced and strange. I am sorry, Saren, that this is so soon after the start, but this is the end. Goodbye." She stepped closer and kissed him lightly on the cheek._

_"I shall always remember you... As a passing fancy." He lightened his tone at the last part, but his gaze and his eyes were still heavy. She laughed for a split second._

_"You always could joke around, couldn't you? I can tell you didn't mean the last bit." He nodded slowly in acknowledgement, and sadness momentarily passed over her face, before she blinked at him regretfully, then left._

_He raised his head to the sky and soundlessly roared his frustration to the heavens. Then, he saw his brother's grinning face on the balcony, leering down at him._

_He picked up a rock, chucked it, and hit him right between the eyes._

_The two boys stood, facing each other, in a small courtyard behind the house. Each had carved wooden weapons, two long, thin swords for the younger, while the older, Saren, had a sword and shield. He was around twenty by then; his smaller brother roughly seventeen. Each had determination and anger on his face._

_The younger boy, started the sparring session. He ran forwards, both swords going for the head. Saren leant back, avoiding both, and stabbed hard to the chest. The younger boy fell back, winded._

_"Too slow, Zimar. You'll never be better than me."_

_The younger brother, Zimar, now a bit over twenty, standing in a large crowd. None of his family were there, and he wasn't talking to anyone. The many faces in the crowd were upturned, looking towards a large, rounded balcony emerging from the citadel above, and their eyes were round in anticipation. Silence was dominant. None spoke. All waited._

_A footstep resonated through the tense atmosphere. It was a sharp sound, and it echoed off the walls. Another followed it. Then another. And a man emerged on the midnight black balcony, walking slowly, carefully, as if each step was important, pre-considered, decisive. As if he knew the effect he was having. It was an effect of knowledge, of power. Of total control over all he saw._

_He wore black gloves of a strange material, possibly some type of leather, and his cape was lined with the same. His sharp black boots, pointed at the front, clicked sharply as they met the floor. A black shirt hung off his wide shoulders, black trousers covered his legs, and dark hair framed his face. There was a reddish-gold crown on his head, the only thing he wore that was not entirely black._

_His eyes, two dark orbs, gazed out over the crowd. They seemed to know all, to see all, to know all that people saw and see all that they knew. The aura of power that he radiated was immense. To all the people in the crowd, he seemed the closest thing to an omnipotent being they would ever see._

_He was the King._

_He began to speak, quietly. His voice was like a thousand slithering serpents, swimming through nectar, coating their lies and forked tongues with a cloak of sweet deception, but to the crowd, it seemed strong, pure, and simple, speaking nothing but truth. That was the effect it had over those of weak mind that heard it. They quickly fell to his will._

_"My subjects, I bring you news of great alarm to myself, that I suspect shall also shock you greatly. The Varden, those who wish to see the end of my reign, despite the fact that I have been a fair and honest King these last hundred years, and we humans can function perfectly well without the Riders or any other race interfering, have allied with our sworn enemies." There was a gasp from the crowd, and Zimar especially. His hand went to his hip, but he found nothing._

_"My army marched out to meet them as they moved upwards from Surda to attack our Empire. We confronted their miniscule forces near the banks of the Jiet River, and we outnumbered them by many men. However, they had struck a deal with the Urgals. The horde of horned monsters charged up behind our armies, but we fought, and many of them died that day, as did the Varden, while we suffered small losses in comparison. Even when the Dwarves came out of their caves to assist them, we fought on, and we killed the dwarven King. They were sorely defeated! Even with the help of monsters they cannot face us!" Cheering erupted, and the people roared in pride at what their Empire had done._

_"Now, however, our troops are returning to our cities. Having dealt a crushing blow to the Varden, they have come back to deal with another threat, one that comes from inside." Mutterings and confused glances ran through the crowd at the words of the King._

_"Inside our cities, inside these very walls, people live who sympathise with the Varden. Some merchants and the like may even support them with money. Their spies live among us, reporting on any weaknesses. They have little to report, thankfully, as Uru'baen has no weaknesses. However, they are a threat to all those around them, even those that only sympathise. Who would trust anyone who would be willing to do a deal with an Urgal? They are a threat to you all." Voices in the crowd murmured in acknowledgement, heads nodded. The crowd was acting just as it was meant to._

_"If you know anyone, have seen anyone, or suspect anyone of supporting the Varden, report it to the army barracks, where one of my captains shall take a note of the person, or people, and give you a gold crown for each person you turn in. They may be your friends, they may even be your family, but if they support our enemies then they are neither. Please, help us uproot the traitors to our cause, and you will be richly rewarded." He turned, and walked back into the citadel, vanishing from sight as the crowd dispersed, silent again, thinking about the possibility of traitors._

_Zimar walked to the side, then, avoiding all the crowds, slipped through an alleyway off to the direct right of the balcony. He appeared deep in thought about something, at war with himself in his mind, as he walked past a shadowy doorway._

_A man leant in the doorway, arms folded, obscured by the shadows, watching Zimar as he walked down the alleyway. He had been observing the speech from the sidelines, and as he peered out, the little light that there was illuminated his face for a moment as he gazed, suspiciously and surreptitiously, at Zimar's back._

_It was Saren._

_Zimar walked into the house, glanced around at the expensive furnishings and rich fabrics, then he sighed. It seemed to be a bit later the same day, as he had the same clothes on. He began to walk up to the stairs, then spun around sharply. Coins jangled in his pockets as he did so, and he visually scanned the room._

_However, he saw nothing. Not a shadow moved. His eyes darted around, as if searching for something, but there was nothing unusual in the room. He turned, then whirled around again._

_The room was exactly the same._

_He swore, glanced around, then turned and headed back up the stairs. As he did so, a man in dark clothing slipped out from behind a curtain. He held a knife; he trod silently; there was a look of anger on his face. He crept up the stairs, slowly, only stepping on the edges, missing one step altogether, only focusing forwards, towards his objective._

_He reached the top. He glanced angrily to the left; he glanced fearfully to the right; then he moved towards a door on the left. He listened at the door for a second, then opened it, slowly, knife at the ready._

_Zimar was in a corner of the room, hiding six gold coins in a pack that he could put on his back, along with some other belongings. The man slowly crept up behind him with the dagger raised. Zimar remained oblivious, until a floorboard creaked under the man's foot. He immediately lunged forwards as Zimar began to turn._

_Zimar cried out, flailing with an arm, and the dagger was knocked to the side, though a punch to the face followed, and Zimar grabbed the pack as he went down, rolling towards the door. The man threw the dagger at him, and it missed by an inch. Zimar jumped up and ran out of the door, the man picking up the dagger and sprinting after him. Noises came from the room on the right, as Zimar leapt down the stairs three or four at a time. The man stopped at the top, and as Zimar glanced back, he said, loudly, "Traitor." It was Saren's voice. Zimar turned, opened the front door, and ran from his family's house, as his brother at the top of the stairs rushed to get his parents out of the city as fast as he could._

Zimar's memories, forgotten with his death, lost to all, floated away into nothingness when Solembum's knife entered his heart. The werecat, when scanning his thoughts, had ignored them and cast them away. His brother, who had seen all of them, had passed into the void, killed by Zimar's own sword. They had nothing to hold onto, after the brain of their owner had finally shut down. Not even the one who had taken all the useful information out of his mind had kept them. They dissolved, their grip on the world lost, and to all the world, they might as well not have happened. None knew of the pain Zimar felt at being struck, none comprehended Saren's distrust of him, evident from the first arguments over the King, and none remembered the culmination of it all; the betrayal of a family, and the flight of a son from another who worked it out and attempted to take revenge.

Memories, once so important, now lost in the wind.


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43: Back to Alagaesia.**

Arya sat at a campfire, next to Eragon. They were about a day away from Ellesmera, and were resting for a bit. Trees rose high into the skies around them, reaching up towards the untouchable stars above. The flames were warm, the night was cold, and they were huddled together for warmth. The dragons were on the other side, doing the same. Eragon and Arya had their arms around each other's shoulders, wrapped up in a blanket from Firnen's saddlebags, staring into the flames. It was a friendly silence, bourn of the fact that they had little to talk about, just enjoying each other's company. The only sound was the crackling of the fire as the wood burnt, casting light into the shadowy trees.

Arya's mind wandered. She thought back to the myriad of events in her past, the time they'd last been alone at a campfire, in the middle of the Empire. She had allowed her mind to express its subconsciousness then, writing the lines about the lonely god in the sand, and she decided to do the same again, if only to distract herself momentarily from the reasons for their flight back to Alagaesia.

She leant out to the side, reaching out with a finger to the loose soil, and began to write something that seemed to flow to her.

_Blurred, people dance and sing,_

_happiness, the lyrics bring._

_Tenderly the words flow out,_

_never to be broken by a vulgar shout._

She looked at the lines, curious as to any hidden meanings they might contain, unknown to her, but if there were any, they escaped her for the present. Eragon leant forwards to see what she had done, and asked a question that seemed familiar, as he had said it before.

"What does it mean?"

"I don't know." She wiped the surface and smoothed it out. "But if the last time you'd said that you were this close to me, you'd have got a slap." He just grinned and leaned closer.

"Well, I'm lucky things have changed, aren't I?" He kissed her on the cheek, lightly, and she smiled, but leant away a bit, just to show that he wasn't going to get everything his own way, and he didn't comment, but just sat back where he was. She began to write again, remembering one of her favourite things about Ellesmera and Du Weldenvarden.

_Green the forests seem to me,_

_a million hues that I can see._

_Day arises with the sun,_

_a sign that dawn has just begun._

"What prompted you to write this?" Eragon had spoken again.

"The memory of my home, and the view from the treetops as the sun rises. It makes you feel light and free as you look at it, a symbol of hope and rebirth." He nodded.

"I was once seen as a symbol of hope and rebirth myself, being the only Varden dragon Rider, as you know. It was a lot of pressure, seemingly fighting alone whenever I flew; even if the elves were helping me, the humans would think it was just me, and of course Saphira. They thought of me as the best fighter of them all, the only one with the strength to bring down the dark King." He laughed. "If they'd seen any of our training sessions before Glaedr arose from his mourning, they would've been shocked!" She grinned too, remembering how she had regularly beaten him with the sword in the days before the assault on Dras-Leona, before wiping the ground smooth again.

This time, she wrote based on the perceptions that other people had had of Eragon, though she knew that the majority of it was false.

_Giant-killer stands alone,_

_no skills needed but his own._

_Bow-like, he is drawn up tight,_

_ready to release a heavenly light._

_Changes unleashed across the land,_

_by a man without a band._

"Before you ask, this was inspired by how the people saw you during the war." Eragon raised his eyebrows.

"They really got that wrong, didn't they? None of this would have happened in the first place if you hadn't transported the egg, and I would have been killed in Farthen Dur if not for you and Saphira." Arya smiled.

"That is just the way people think. They see a hero, a saviour, and they want to glorify him. If that means that they cut out both everyone else and the truth out of their minds, then so be it." He nodded again, slowly.

"And how did you see me during the war? Hopefully not the same way as them." She grinned, smoothed the ground with magic, and put a bit more thought in than before as she wrote in the dust.

_Proud warrior, appears alone,_

_Standing tall, like a stone._

_But behind, watching his back,_

_Mighty forces taking up the slack._

_Enemies many in their way,_

_Yet trying hard to win the day._

_Managing to struggle through,_

_You'd make your father proud of you._

She looked at him as he stared at the writing, seeing the smile spread across his face. "Thank you," he whispered in her ear, pulling her into an embrace.

"You're welcome, Eragon. It was my pleasure." She hugged him back, strongly. Then, there came a voice from the saddlebags. They jumped at the noise, which broke through the silence that had surrounded the gaps in their conversation, an annoyed sounding voice that sounded familiar to them both. Eragon leapt up, for the noise came from Saphira's saddlebags, lying next to the actual saddle on the ground a way to the left of them. He rummaged around in it for a second, then pulled something out and walked across back to Arya, looking at it as he did so. It was a mirror.

_Are you vain enough to stare at a reflection of yourself rather than me? She_ inquired mentally. She sensed his amusement through their connection.

_Of course not, my Queen. I was merely observing something other than you for a second, so that when I look back you seem all the more beautiful._ Her heart jumped, but she remained calm and in control in order to make a good reply.

_If that is so, then why haven't you looked back yet?_

_You know this is a scrying mirror, and this seems important. There are a lot of people who want to talk to us._ He sat down next to her, holding it so they both could see. The mirror showed the inside of a tent, illuminated by a single torch. Roran was there, standing closest to their viewpoint. Behind him, Jormundur sat on the throne that had been Nausada's, looking like he had just awoken, and in front of him were Angela, who was wearing a strange sort of sweater, Solembum, and Yelloweyes, the werecat who stayed in Nausada's rooms, as part of the deal that she'd made with King Halfpaw. Arya had been curious as to where the werecat would go with the Queen's death, and she had guessed he'd go to the new King. Also in the room were Dusan, standing next to the throne, and Laenar, poking her head through the hole on the other side.

"Finally, you heard! I was beginning to worry," grumbled Roran, but Arya could see by the look in his eyes that there was something important going on. Also, Kings didn't generally call meetings in the middle of the night.

"What do you wish to tell us? I doubt it is unimportant." Roran nodded, but before he could say anything, Jormundur spoke.

"Well, the first thing you should know is, yesterday morning, or this morning, whichever it is, Roran and I were attacked by several Surdan spies. More attacked the Nighthawks, who thankfully had assistance from other men from outside the tent, though seven of them were killed before all the Surdans were killed, while six men broke in through the back of the tent, and attacked us. Thanks to Angela's timely arrival, we survived. I had more Nighthawks recruited from the ranks of the most experienced soldiers and magicians. The second thing is that Ilirea has been taken, though at great cost to Orrin. Not necessarily through loss of men, but through the loss of his General, a man called Zimar, who was killed by Solembum and Yelloweyes. Solembum invaded his mind before striking the final blow, and managed to find several useful pieces of information regarding Orrin's plans. Since then, they journeyed back to us as fast as they could, arriving a mere half-hour ago."

"Then the skills of werecats must be powerful indeed, to get from there to you so fast," Eragon said. Solembum grinned. He was in his human form, wearing his usual ragged loincloth. "So, then, what are their plans?"

Solembum answered, "Unfortunately, Orrin was decidedly vague in his plans for after the city. He did, however, mention that he would prefer to defend it than attack, and that he would use enchanted javelins and a secret weapon to try to hold you off when you arrive, along with his Riders, Murtagh and Taiven, who are bound to his service with oaths. Though they know what this secret weapon is, Zimar did not." The werecat's eyes glinted. "He was rather angry about that. I suspect that if he was not sworn to oath himself he might have forced the information out of Orrin single-handedly."

"So, Orrin did not even tell his most trusted servant, his best general-well, presumably-about this weapon?" Arya inquired, confused as to the nature of the mysterious weapon. "It must be powerful indeed."

"That, or Orrin is overestimating its potential. It's probably a result of one of his crazy experiments," Roran joked. Eragon snorted, but Angela shook her head.

"If he had found something dangerous while experimenting, it would probably have killed him. How else would he know if it was fatal or not? It's like rabbits. You never know they're deadly until they bite. That's why so few people know about them. Those who do wear these." She pointed to the sweater.

Everyone apart from Solembum stared at the herbalist. She glanced around at them. "What? Oh, of course. Another way to tell is the eyes." Everyone just looked even more bewildered than before, but Arya could tell that Eragon was holding back a laugh. His cheeks were reddening rapidly, but he managed to control himself.

"Anyway, we're about a day's march from Ilirea now," Jormundur said, taking control of the situation again. Arya and Eragon nodded.

"Do you have any idea how many men they have?" Eragon asked, but they all shook their heads, and Jormundur spoke again.

"Not even Zimar knew the entire number, according to Solembum, but it is possible that their numbers were at one point as large as that of Galbatorix's at the Burning Plains, though the true number was likely lower by some amount. Since they invaded the cities, numbers have dwindled fast, though Belatona went relatively easily, it and Dras-Leona probably accounted for approximately twenty-five thousand or more losses on their part. Ilirea is unknown, though it likely accounted for even more, due to the sheer size of it, and the numbers of defenders. However, our forces shall likely still be unable to match them, as they have the city, and if they choose to fight outside of it, they have more cavalry. They probably have a considerable numbers advantage as it is, despite the fact that they have taken three cities and we have attacked none yet. You, the Riders, will be the turning point if we are to win. When will you be arriving?"

They looked at each other, a quick mental conversation taking place between them, then Arya said, "Three days at a stretch. One to Ellesmera, then two from there to Ilirea." Eragon nodded.

"Yes, we have enough energy to fly for quite a long time without resting. We could go all the way from here to the capital, non-stop and still be able to fight when we get there." There were murmurs of appreciation from the people in the tent, then, from the back, though Dusan looked confused about the statement, before asking a question.

"Ebrithilar, I do not quite understand why any two Riders in their right minds would swear themselves to Orrin, and especially their two dragons too. Could you possibly explain?" Eragon gestured to Solembum.

"I could hazard a guess, but I suspect Zimar's memories shall have the answers you seek. Solembum?" The werecat licked his lips and began to speak. His tongue looked rough, like that of a cat.

"Yes, they do. He ensnared Taiven by means of a trick. He had them answer questions where the answer was 'I do,' both her and her dragon, in the ancient language. They were relaxed in his presence, and he then asked, 'Will you do whatever I wish?' Not thinking, or so I presume, they each replied 'I do,' and he then forced them to swear themselves to his service." The werecat rapped his fingernails, which were rather long, and sharp, on the table.

"Now, Zimar was not there when Murtagh was first enslaved, but he was responsible for the cause of it. A former Empire magician was found and caught by him, and brought to the King to determine the punishment necessary. The man pleaded, he begged, he bribed, and then, just before it seemed obvious that he would be sentenced to death, he said, quietly enough so that he thought only the King heard, though Zimar did too; 'I know the true names of Murtagh and Thorn!' At that point, the King fell silent, before ordering all but Zimar out of the room, and making Zimar freeze the man in place and move to the door. As the magician was a weak one, Zimar could hold him easily. The two of them talked, though Zimar could not hear. A few days later, Orrin seemed unusually happy, and Zimar was in charge of dumping the body of the man in a river. A week after that, Murtagh and Thorn arrived, already slaves. The King must have used their true names to establish full control over them." Dusan appeared shocked at the news, and Eragon especially was saddened, Arya knew, because his half-brother was under the control of an evil King again.

"We thank you for your information, Solembum. Roran, Jormundur, Dusan, Angela, Yelloweyes, Solembum, and Laenar, we take our leave now, as we need to rest. Farewell, until we speak again," Arya said. They nodded and said their goodbyes; Laenar growled a farewell; and the mirror went black.

Eragon stood, returned it to the saddlebags, pulled out an extra blanket and wrapped it around her as he sat down again, pulling it over his shoulders at the same time. Their backs were to the darkness; their faces turned towards the burning light of hope; but they could not relax. A battle would come; people would die; they would fight; and that knowledge would not let them rest. It gnawed away inside them, like a burrow grub; disturbing, disgusting, and never stopping. Eragon especially seemed affected, so Arya attempted to calm him down.

"Eragon, people die. It is a fact of life that sometimes we cannot prevent this. But as we can prevent the deaths of even more of Jormundur's soldiers by fighting, and preserve the peaceful state of the Empire, we are honour-bound to do our duty, even if it means fighting Murtagh and Taiven, as it indeed surely will. We have to, for Alagaesia." Eragon nodded sharply.

"I understand what we must do, but I am uneasy about it nonetheless. What if we end up fighting Murtagh and Taiven? What shall we do? If we have the chance of a killing blow, should we take it? That is my biggest worry. Vrael fell because he spared a life that he thought was worth saving, and Galbatorix rose as a direct result. What if the same happens here, and we are defeated? That is my worst fear in this situation, and even now we do not have the support that Vrael had. The rider Order consists of a mere seven that have been fully trained, and maybe two or three more now which are not, from the eggs with Vanir, rather than the hundreds in Vrael's time. The loss of any one of them would be a large blow, especially if Murtagh, you, or I fell, or indeed more than one of us, or possibly all. From such a tragedy as the latter the Order might never recover. A single one would still be a great loss, and if two died, that would be something that the lotion of time might heal. Worse, if two died, one of us would probably have to live on without the other, a living death, or we would both be dead. Even if only one of the senior Riders died, either we will lose a friend, or one of us will lose the other. That is what I most fear. Not the countless deaths soon to be unleashed upon this land, but the absence of you in my life, or your grief at my death, which is something I never wish to see, for to know that the love of my life was so saddened would surely torture me even in the Void." Arya looked into Eragon's eyes, seeing their worry as clearly as her own. It was touching that he cared so much for her, and she reciprocated the feeling, but they would surely never get to sleep like that.

She decided to attempt to lighten his mood. "You forgot to mention what the loss of your own dragon would do! What sort of a Rider are you?" Saphira snorted on the other side of the fire, almost blowing it out. "Eragon, I do not know what we shall do if we have to face Murtagh and Taiven in battle, but it should be relatively easy to restrain them. The Eldunari have agreed to help us, and we know how they fight." Eragon's eyes brightened for a second.

"You're right! We can just hold them in place for the duration of the battle, fly down, and help to kill Orrin. Though realistically we should be able to beat them anyway, or at least, you and Saphira could definitely beat each pair one-on-one." Arya frowned, curious.

"Why me and Saphira? Surely each Rider pair works best together?"

"Ah, but Murtagh and Taiven, they know how I fight, the both of them do, meaning you are better against them than I am. And Saphira, out of her and Firnen, is the better flier. Firnen is younger, and he has less experience. Saphira has been trained by Glaedr, and she has been training all the other dragons for five years. She would have the advantage against Miremel and Thorn both." She nodded, understanding.

"So, me and Firnen against you and Saphira, overall, who would win?"

Both she and Eragon thought for a second, then Eragon said, "In a real fight?" She nodded. "I would never fight you with an unblocked blade, despite my confidence in your ability. I wouldn't take the risk of hurting you."

"In a training fight, then, if you're too scared for a real one." Eragon glared at her playfully, before thinking hard.

"Well, I know that in fighting with the sword, we would be even. If we were battling with our minds at the same time, I wouldn't know your ability with that at the moment, though you may very well have the advantage still. Saphira, I suspect, would probably take the advantage over Firnen, though it would take a while, due to his size compared to that of the other dragons. After she joined the fight on the ground, you would be at a disadvantage."

Arya tried to think of a way around the problem, a way that she would be able to win in that situation, but came up with little, until, "But by then I would have broken into your mind and immobilised you, and could hold you hostage to Saphira, meaning I win!" He shook his head.

"You couldn't break my barriers."

A second later, she smashed a mental attack into him, and it crashed right through his mental defences. She said, in his mind, _Oh, really?_ Before leaving it and withdrawing within her own, throwing up barriers against the reaction she knew was coming.

"That wasn't fair! I'll get you for that!" She felt his mind testing the edges of her consciousness, looking for weak points, and she closed her eyes in preparation for a mental assault, determined that nothing would disturb her or distract her.

She felt breath on her ear, and heard the words, "I love you," which did both those things, before a mental attack rammed straight through her own defences. _Told you I'd get you._ He withdrew, and she could see a smile on his face as he prepared his own barriers.

Frustrated, she said, "That wasn't fair either! This was meant to be a mental battle, and you distracted me!" He rolled his eyes.

"Anything goes in a real battle. But alright, just mental from now on, agreed?" She nodded, determined to get the better of him, and launched an attack.

It ricocheted off barriers as strong as any she'd seen, built out of a picture of her. The image was a perfect picture, enriched with his feelings of love, happiness, and joy, and built on foundations of the memories of all their times together. Though she knew the strength of his love and care for her, the image still surprised her slightly, even as the Fairth by the Ramr River had, though the effect was not so strong. She hadn't guessed he would use his feelings as a defence.

In her moment of slight confusion, retaliation came in a mental attack that she managed to fight off, though it dented her defences somewhat. She rebuilt them out of a new image as she assaulted his barriers, this time damaging them. His consciousness attacked, but like a spear meeting a shield, it jarred upon making contact. Unlike a spear, however, it appeared shocked at what it had made contact with.

The image Arya had concentrated on was a mirror. Flat and smooth, it surprised Eragon that he could see his own attack rebounding in her defences, and as his concentration was lowered, she launched another strike, assailing the seemingly unconquerable fortress that was his feelings for her. They didn't even dent, and she built her defences up in the same way as his; based off her love. Likewise, he was unable to damage her barriers at all.

They continued attempting to break each other's barriers down, but eventually it became apparent that they were evenly matched, and neither would yield. Eragon said, "Enough!" and they fell into silence for a minute or two, leaning on each other. They had been warding themselves off for the better part of an hour.

_Warding..._ Arya began to wonder if you could use magic to shield your mind, in the form of a ward that took strength, but not concentration. She figured it was possible, but the effectiveness of the ward would depend entirely upon how much energy it took, whether it allowed you to reach your mind out in return, and if it would detect and allow friendly contact and only defend against enemies. She began to work out a possible wording in her mind, sharing her thoughts mentally with Eragon as she put the spell together. She sensed him examining her intentions rather than distracting her from her task.

Once she had finished devising the spell, he said, _It's a good idea, but maybe you should try the spell on something like a tree first, rather than risk an unknown side effect to yourself._ She nodded, extending her consciousness out to the largest pine in the area. She spoke the words, making sure to specify that the energy would come from the tree. As the ward only came into effect when mental contact was made, they would see no immediate effect to the tree.

She said, "Se du huginar abr sem traen waise solkiro fra du huginar abr Skulblakar, Alfakyn, dvergar, un mernyar!"

May the thoughts of this tree be shielded from the thoughts of dragons, elves, dwarves, and humans!

She made no attempt to do anything to allow the movements of the tree's thoughts, as it couldn't reach out with its mind, or to allow friendly contact, as trees generally didn't recognise friends and enemies as such. She just made sure that it couldn't be contacted by the main sentient races.

Arya first just extended her mind to the tree, but rather than feeling its dull, slow consciousness, she felt a wall around where the tree was. The wall was smooth, hard; impenetrable. She attacked it, powerfully, and nothing happened. There was no new weakness in the wall, and visually, the tree appeared unchanged.

Eragon had reached out to the tree as well, and she could tell he was surprised by what he sensed, shocked even. She shot him a questioning glance, and he replied, "That was how the minds of the assassins were shielded, in Farthen Dur."

She nodded, rather annoyed that someone else had done it first, and then checked the energy level of the small plant, to see the toll the spell would take. She cast the spell again, removing the one on the tree as she did so, directing the enchantment at a small shrub instead. She reached out to it, feeling the same barrier, and attacked it powerfully, as she had with the tree. The defence held, though some of the leaves of the shrub seemed to darken and to curl at the edges. She released the spell, and checked the shrub's energy again. It had decreased a little, not very much, but a noticeable amount nonetheless. It would, she decided, be useful at the start of battles, but be best to remove once you began to tire, unless you had an alternative energy resource available.

Not that energy would be a problem, with the assistance of the Eldunari. They had enough power to move Tronjiem with energy to spare.

She decided not to experiment more with the spell now, choosing instead to leave it for another day. They had flown far, and she was beginning to get tired, so she laid her blanket out behind her, as did Eragon, his mind at ease after the talk of war. She shuffled closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder, and she could tell he was smiling as he kissed her on the cheek. They gazed up at the infinite expanse of stars, the unchangeable, everlasting stars, staring up at the constellations and signs written in the sky for all to see, allowing themselves to relax, safe, looking at that which was unchanging above them, and feeling that which was unchanging within them. Love.


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44: Back in Ilirea, Good Times.**

The last time Orrin had been in Ilirea, he had sworn to Nausada as his High Queen, and left with a sour taste in his mouth. He deserved that throne. He deserved that crown. He had supported the Varden with weapons and supplies under the eyes of Galbatorix, when he was the only target the evil King had had that he could locate. He had risked the future of a country and taken it to war against the most powerful single being in recorded history. He was descended from the former line of kings succeeding King Palancar, from Thanebrand the Ring Giver to his own father, King Larkin, and including the queen who fought against Galbatorix's forces and won, allowing Surda to recede from the Empire. Their history was glorious, but their recent past was not so. Orrin would restore the line's greatness for the future by conquering the lands of the Empire. He intended to widen his country still further after the last fraction of resistance had perished. But first, he had business to deal with.

He had cursed at the news of the death of Zimar. The rumours of "Cat-men" were demoralising for a start, and the loss of such a powerful fighter was a sore blow as well. He had immediately promoted Hugran, the former second-in-command of Rakr Sverd, to their leader and his personal guard, though he didn't have what it took to lead properly in a battle. He just fought, rather than making decisions. Orrin would be forced to fight as well, to balance it out. Hugran was no good on his own when it came to leading.

However, Orrin was confident that he would survive. He had his personal guard of magicians, now increased to twelve, plus Hugran, and he had a large troop advantage over the soldiers of Jormundur. His cavalry were fast; his infantry disciplined. He was confident that they would overcome their enemies with ease, no matter what tricks they tried to play.

He was sitting in a chair, on Nausada's balcony. It overlooked the city, which was now in the full control of his forces. They had continued their advance through the streets until around midnight, possibly a bit before, with large casualties sustained throughout the day. They had moved all that they had kept in the camp into the houses of the soldiers that had fought, which were set apart from the rest, though with the extra soldiers they were slightly crowded. He himself had ridden into the city with his guards only when it was confirmed that all the defending troops were dead. Entering the castle, he laughed at the sight of a mutilated body of a Nighthawk left in the centre, as a warning to all those that might enter. Orrin's men took no prisoners.

He had, of course, ordered it cleared away immediately. Having a sight like that in an entrance hall was hardly polite or normal, no matter what signal it sent.

He then, almost in awe of the delicate engravings and decorations scattered throughout the keep, swiftly ascended the stairs and entered Nausada's chambers, guards following. They found the body of a girl there, and Orrin was shocked upon noticing the symbol on her forehead and realising that it was Elva. He had thought of her as unnatural, overly strange, yet unkillable. He had thought of her as invincible. Yet she had died. He had wondered what he could do about her, and had decided to just keep away, if he ever saw her, and send people in to deal with her. He had hoped she had left the city. But she had not, and she had been killed. The knife in her neck, as well as the one in her hand, was identified as Zimar's. Before death, Orrin's best general had removed a great obstacle from his path.

It hadn't helped Zimar though.

Orrin had ordered the body to be disposed of, preferably by burning, the same as all the other soldiers and supporters of Nausada were. His men were clearing up the city, and a team of workers were trying to rebuild as well as possible the broken gate and any other defences, though that wasn't going well. He could see, as he stared out over the conquered capital, that the gate was still flat. A three hundred foot high gap had replaced the ancient defence in the wall, leaving the city vulnerable to attack from the forces that had been sighted shortly after sunrise, marching towards the capital.

Orrin glanced upwards, away from the broken defences, looking at the column of men that were marching south towards Ilirea. It was a large army, larger than that which had been in the capital, as Gil'ead was a garrison city. In Galbatorix's reign, it had been the army's main staging point; no houses, only barracks. The column, in shining armour, marched onwards. With their cavalry on the flanks, though considerably fewer than Orrin's, they were nonetheless an impressive sight. And the hole in the wall only made them look even more daunting.

They would have to be stopped outside the city, as soon as possible. The Riders would probably come soon and help them attack, and Orrin held out little hope of winning anything with Riders fighting against him. Of course, he was not defenceless against them. His magicians were enchanting the javelins that he planned to shoot from the ballistae arranged on the walls. The Dauthdaert, hidden, had been brought with them to the capital. And his Riders were not exactly useless either.

He stood, turning away from the balcony, and walked past the well-decorated tables and chairs to the door, outside which the guards stood. He needed a name for them, he decided. Just calling them "the guards" wouldn't scare many people. Something like the Nighthawks would be better, more memorable. He already had Rakr Sverd, but they weren't his personal guard. He would need something else for them. They'd have to make their own name, later on. Right now, he had work to do.

He strode past them, glancing as he did so at the doorframe which depicted the battle for Ilirea, against Galbatorix. He had examined it previously, the fact that he was not included only increasing his satisfaction with the revenge he had taken on Nausada. She had not even seen fit to include the greatest human ally the Varden had had in the carving representing their victory! And that idiot farmer Stronghammer had been put in instead, at the head of the forces! The discrepancy was astounding.

The guards fell in beside him as he walked down the hallway, towards a room he had decided to use for meetings. His boots, which usually made a smart clicking sound as he walked, were silenced, muffled by the rich red carpet, annoying him slightly. The effect pleased him; it gave him a commanding air; and the fact that it had stopped irritated him, though he didn't let it be seen. A King, especially a High King, should always appear calm and in control.

He reached a door and pulled it open sharply, seeing the surprised faces around the table as the people sat up sharply. His shoes, he realised, usually alerted them to his presence, and it had been a small shock to them to see that it was him. They had been lazing around, and Orrin realised with a jolt that they might regularly do that, waiting for the sound of his coming before they actually did any work or planning. He would have to find a way to deal with that, after the meeting was over.

"My Lord! We didn't know you were coming." Hugran had spoken from the other end of the table. He was a large, strong warrior, only in the meeting because of his rank. He probably thought it was because he was clever. It wasn't.

"Obviously you didn't, Hugran, or you would have been working on something, I hope? We have much to discuss here." The man nodded slowly, before Rithis, the General in charge of troop movements, spoke up.

"Your Majesty, we need to discuss the defines of the city, correct?" When Orrin nodded, he went on, "I do not think we should remain within the walls. That damn gate is causing a lot of problems. We should engage them with our cavalry, on an open field, the infantry following behind. Possibly a surprise attack when they camp would be the way forwards. Our cavalry flanking them while our infantry attacking head on. That would be the most effective method, in my opinion. If we catch them by surprise, quickly killing their sentries, possibly with magic,"-he shot a glance at Hugran, who stared back blankly-"then an attack would immediately be effective amongst their tents. We would catch them by surprise, surrounded, with our numbers being greater than theirs. It would be a slaughter." Rithis was right, Orrin realised. Caught by surprise, there would be nothing the soldiers of the Empire could do. However, there were problems.

"We would have to scout their defences and have enough light to see by. It the cavalry ran headlong into a ditch they wouldn't be much use. It's the same with the infantry. Their cries of pain and surprise would then wake the soldiers. We should attack at a time when they are unprepared, yet there is adequate light. I would say a short while after dawn rises would be best. Also, an aerial attack from the Riders could be a signal to charge. If we set their tents on fire, it will provide extra lighting and confuse them all the more. After the disposal of their sentries, the Riders swoop in and that is the signal to attack. It is a tactic, I believe, that was used to great effect after Dras-Leona. Possibly the Riders could attempt to kill the King, and that Stronghammer who I hear is with them. My little assassination attempt failed miserably and they remain as strong as ever." Rithis nodded, while Hugran grinned for some reason.

"With their deaths, the army would lose confidence, and then the battle. If just Stronghammer died, Jormundur would rally them strongly, though they would lose confidence. If Jormundur was lost to them, Stronghammer would restore their confidence and take over the leadership. His motivational skills with them are greatly impressive, and they think of him as unbeatable; a human god. His death would, I think, be a greater blow than that of Jormundur. The Riders should attempt to target him." Orrin agreed with the statement. Roran's killing of Barst had elevated him above all to the soldiers. His death would be a large hit to their morale.

"I think it should be only one Rider that attempts to kill them. The other will be needed elsewhere, in case of an emergency." Rithis appeared surprised.

"What emergency could there be? We outnumber them by many. Our sheer strength should be enough to overwhelm any possible problems." Orrin disagreed with the statement. Anything could happen in a battle, and it was best to be prepared.

"If a Rider arrived suddenly, from the elves, dwarves, or Urgals, or all three together, they could decimate our forces quickly without defences. We need to both have a Rider ready and prepare our enchanted javelins. If any Riders come to assist Jormundur, both Riders shall make that their priority." The general nodded, understanding.

"Who shall inform them of their duties, Your Majesty?"

"I shall. Where are they?"

"Below. In the basement." Orrin raised his eyebrows at the statement.

"Why not in the dungeon? Surely that would be more fitting for them? They are, for all intents and purposes, prisoners." Rithis snorted.

"Because they have no dungeons, that's why. It appears that that sort of thing was not the designers' priority. Apparently Nausada had a large area of what had been Galbatorix's dungeon destroyed. The only remaining part is for all intents and purposes just another floor. Nevertheless, we have put the Riders there, along with some things which we brought ourselves that you might enjoy." The King smirked.

"Very well."

Taiven was in a small room, chained to a wall. It wasn't what she'd call a cell, but it was small enough and dark enough to be one, though that was probably because there was no light. She knew it was small because of the glimpse she'd got when they'd woken her up. The light had vanished immediately after that, and she was left in the dark.

She had been put under a spell of sleep during the night, and so had Miremel. They had taken her out of the cage, away from her partner-of-heart-and-mind, while the battle was nearing its conclusion. She hated being away from Miremel. She felt incomplete. They had done something, possibly some sort of drug, to reduce their bond to its most rudimentary level. They couldn't communicate, and the impression Taiven always got of Miremel's feelings were slightly blurred, indistinct. It was an unusual feeling, after five years of constant contact with her dragon.

She had seen the battle, or at least the start of it, through the bars of the cage. She saw the great gate topple, crushing many soldiers. She saw the siege engines meeting and taking the walls and guardtowers. And she saw the three remaining flags in the city sink down, one by one, left to right, the castle in the middle falling at a bit past midday. Then, with no way to observe the fighting in the streets, she had sunk back into sleep. It was then that the spell had been cast, she presumed.

She shook at the chains that bound her wrists, attempting to break them loose from wherever they were attached. They rattled loudly, but did not give way. She had hoped that the chains were not well fixed onto the wall, as the Surdans had only had Ilirea for... She wasn't sure how long it had been, but it couldn't be more than a day, if that.

She heard a noise from her left, a rattling sound much like the one made by her chains. She shook them again, and the sound came from the left again. She quietly muttered a name into the darkness.

"Murtagh?"

"Taiven?" His voice was tired, strained. Much like hers, now she thought of it. The pressure and stress was taking its toll.

"Yes, it's me. Though I would have thought you would have guessed that by now," she said, in an attempt to lighten the mood. When his reply came, however, it still seemed to be rough, sad, and in mourning.

"I didn't think anyone other than you would be in this dump. What is it?"

"What is this dump, or what do I want?"

"Both. I might as well know." She nodded in reply, before realising that he couldn't see her and speaking.

"We're in a small room, probably in Ilirea. It didn't look like a dungeon, from what I saw. I guess they didn't want that sort of thing when they built the new castle and keep here. Orrin has probably taken the city, or he wouldn't just leave us here. I was wondering how you were. Can you sense Thorn at all?"

"No. They've dulled our bond somehow. I can hardly feel him."

Their voices echoed slightly in the enclosed room, but not much. The only sounds were their voices and their breathing. No light entered from anywhere. The feel of the cold metal pressing into her wrists gave it a foreboding air, and a small chill ran through her. She was trapped, and none could help her.

"They've done the same to me. I can't remember any magic, well, I don't think I can right now." A grunt of agreement came from Murtagh.

"Sorry," he said suddenly. She frowned, curious, though she knew he couldn't see her.

"What for? You haven't done anything."

"No, but if not for me we might not be in this mess. Orrin would not have hoped to do such a thing with only one Rider. When he found the chance to control me, he pounced on it, and thus were the seeds of greed, power, and mad ambition planted. It was only after that that he attempted to get you into his power."

"Murtagh, you did the best you could. How were you supposed to know someone had found your true name? There was nothing you could have done beforehand that wouldn't be bordering on extreme paranoia." There was no reply, so she continued. "Look, don't blame yourself for this. Blame Orrin. If anyone has the right to blame you, it's me, but I don't. You're my friend now, and this whole thing is his fault anyway."

"Thanks, Taiven. That means a lot to me," came his reply, and then there was silence.

In the dark room, they stayed still, waiting for something to happen. They didn't know how long it would be, or how long it had been. They were just waiting for something to change, anything, though they had no power to make it happen. It could have been minutes, hours, or days, though probably not the latter, before the sharp clicking sounds of boots reverberated through the corridor outside. They heard the fumbling of a key in a lock, and light, despite its dimness, momentarily blinding them as the door flew open, a torch outside illuminating the room. They heard the footsteps again, and they advanced towards Taiven. A shadow blocked the light, and she gasped as she saw that it was Orrin.

He moved close to her, looking into her eyes, and growled, "Don't try anything," as his hands went up to her face. He reached up past it and unchained her from the wall. She crouched down, holding her sore and aching wrists close to her body as Orrin moved to Murtagh, who was staring at him with eyes narrowed, full of hatred. When he was released, he simply rubbed his wrists with his hands and went to help Taiven up. She muttered her thanks, and he nodded to her as Orrin looked on, contempt written all over his face.

"Follow me," he said, striding out of the room. Taiven looked at Murtagh, then led the way out, walking down the corridor, which was a clean, white colour, the marble walls uncharacteristic of Orrin's favoured type of dungeon, she guessed. The place in Dauth had reeked of sewage, and the dark grey walls seemed to absorb all light and happiness that attempted to entre. It had been a place of doom and gloom, devoid of any enjoyment or pleasure. The plain, precise look of the hallway showed that Orrin had had little time to change it to something more to his tastes, but that didn't reduce the aura of darkness he himself gave off, striding down the middle with his black robe trailing behind him, although it made him look rather wrong, out of place, amidst the clean and clear walls and floor of Ilirea. Following him, however, Taiven still had an ominous feeling about what was going to happen. She was sure it wasn't going to be good.

Murtagh watched as Orrin opened a door to the side and walked in, following Taiven as she entered the large, dark room. It, like the rest of the place, was probably not meant to be dark-it was just the lighting. Indistinct shapes lurked ominously in the shadows along the edges of the room, which had almost certainly not been there under Nausada's rule. From what he could see, they were dark and twisted, things that bent and pulled and caused pain. Somewhere off to the right, one seemed to emit a slight glow of red. Orrin, somewhere ahead, clicked his fingers, and a dull light appeared as a strangely black flame appeared in a corner at a word which Murtagh could not remember, creating an eerie halo of light around the head of the man who had said the spell. The room was lit up, though everything in it was given a greyish tint. Murtagh gazed around at the things around him, shocked, as did Taiven.

There was a large wooden structure to his left. Hanging down on a couple of ropes, horizontally, there were a couple of planks of wood, joined together at one end, two holes for hands along the large edges where they met, and a couple of metal loops at the ends, close together, to lock the pieces together. A similar set were at the floor, for feet. It was like the stocks sometimes present in villages for punishments, though there was no hole for the head. The ropes extended upwards, to the highest point of the structure, which was in a frame that from the side looked exactly like an 'A.' They looped over a crossbeam, in two dents that they fitted into, coming down and tied at the other side. There was a round, large wheel on an axle going through the middle part of the 'A,' with lumps and bumps all the way along the surface. It's obvious purpose was to cause someone pain, simply by stringing someone up in the places for the hands and feet, pulling them upwards and off the ground, bending them around the edge of the wheel and spinning it, stretching them to their limits and pounding their back at the same time as it was stretched to its full extent. It was a truly cruel machine, surely designed by some sort of monster. It was the sort of thing he would have expected to find in some dark corner of Uru'baen, a device invented and used in Galbatorix's twisted experiments.

Diagonally left, there were simply a rack of weapons, and a table to tie someone down to. There were simple knives, long needles, hooks to tear into flesh and swords with sharp barbs on either side to penetrate and rip. It was a brutal array of weaponry.

To the front was the man who had provided the spell. He had wide shoulders, muscled arms, and a slightly stupid, yet aggressive, expression on his face. A few more people, Murtagh now realised, stood behind him, as if they were assistants, ready to help.

Diagonally to the right was another large structure. There were four wooden poles at the corners of a large, square pit. The wood that made up the sides of the pit was probably magically reinforced and protected, for it contained hot coals, glowing gently, in vast quantities. The heat it gave off was sweltering. Above it, four more pieces of wood joined the main posts together. Hanging from four ropes that were pulled over the joints, above the centre of the pit, there was a long metal bar, two ropes at either end. There was no sort of grip on it, just the smooth surface. Steps led up the side, adjacent to the handle. It was another sick, evil mechanism, the clear intent of its creator being to have someone hang from the handle, sweating from the heat rising upwards until the handle became slippery, or they simply lost their grip and fell to a scalding and a burning from the coals. It would not kill, but it would cause a massive amount of pain to any suffering the punishment of letting go. Another option for the torturer would be to just use the ropes to lower the person down into the pit.

Directly to Murtagh's right, was a bed of nails. Thousands of razor-sharp needles protruded from a long plank of wood, sticking through holes in the surface. While they were fixed, for some reason Murtagh could not understand, it appeared that they were removable from below, though what the removal of the spikes would do to the person being tortured was impossible for Murtagh to fathom. He simply could not understand the reasoning behind it. Maybe it was for transportation purposes.

"Welcome to my new room of torture, Taiven, Murtagh. I have brought you here, well, to be tortured. Why else? Murtagh, I'll start with you. Come here." Orrin was standing next to the structure with the pit of hot coals.

Murtagh walked over, slowly, noticing a glance of concern and fear for his safety from Taiven, but as he did, he said, "Why torture me? If you want information, you need only ask. I am bound to your service," he said, letting his loathing of the situation creep into his voice, along with his hatred of Orrin, but the King answered in a perfectly normal tone, keeping his cool.

"Because I want you angry for the battle that is to come, willing to strike out at anything and everything at my command. Not that you won't anyway, but it gives me satisfaction to know that it is, at least in part, of your own will. Now, come. Do not cast any spells of protection or relief from pain around yourself, but attempt to avoid it as well as you can when you are in position. Only when you have touched the coals you may attempt to jump out. Walk up the steps. You will be healed, or you will heal yourself, afterwards."

Orrin was truly twisted, Murtagh realised. What difference would it make, angry and violent willingly or not? Maybe he just wants an excuse to hurt me. And he would be hurt by the coals. He had felt the heat from the other side of the room. He glared at Orrin as he started to climb the steps.

Upon reaching the top, he glanced at the King. Orrin said, "Lower the ropes. Murtagh, grab the bar when it comes in reach." A second later, Murtagh was able to reach up and take hold of the strong metal bar, and he did so. It was smooth, slippery. Hard to grip. The men who were controlling the ropes hoisted it upwards again, and his legs dangled straight down. He prepared for pain, but didn't attempt to move his legs away yet. Better to conserve his energy. The heat was already roasting.

"Slowly, begin the descent." At the command, Murtagh felt himself begin to move closer to the red-hot coals. Glancing upwards for a second, away from his feet, which he had been looking at to see how close they were, he noticed expressions of dark anticipation on the faces of both Orrin and the magician who had cast the lighting spell, but deep concern on the face of Taiven. He quickly looked back at his feet as the heat became much more intense. The pain and burns were less than a foot away.

Slowly, controlled, Murtagh pulled up his knees, bringing them closer to his chest. The coals still only got closer, so, holding on hard, trying to maintain a grip, he began to swing his body, legs and all, upwards and away from the coals. He managed to get his knees, close to his torso, against the bar. His head, worryingly, was nearer than his feet to the heat. And with his legs in the air, he would be unable to even get out easily if he fell, as he surely would if he got burnt. He began to wonder if he should have just let his feet burn a bit then tried to flip out of it using his hands. Too late for that, he supposed.

The heat was almost at his back, slightly lower than his head. Upon instinct, the terror of burning filling him, he swung his body upwards, pushing out with his arms, though his hands remained on the bar. He stopped moving upon the realisation that he could keep himself in that position for a few seconds more. Arms outstretched, legs bent, he clung on as hard as he could to the smooth, now sweaty, metal, trying to keep his balance. It was only his elven strength, provided by Galbatorix and now proving itself useful, that managed to keep him holding onto the bar. Gasps of surprise and shock came from the people in the room, but Murtagh ignored them, concentrating instead on keeping himself steady while slowly bending his arms downwards and feeling the heat that was now almost burning them. It reached a hotter level than it ever had before, but he kept his head steady and controlled, looking at the wall behind him, not out of choice, but that was the way he was forced to face. He waited for his hands to make contact. The men at the ropes kept lowering him down. The tension was annoying him more than the heat was!

A vivid sensation of pain rushed through his hands, and he cried out as he felt the skin almost literally cooking. They felt like they were on fire; they felt like they were being roasted; they felt like they were being put into both the frying pan and the fire at the same time. Flames seemed to erupt across them like it did on the Burning Plains; anywhere and everywhere. The pain was almost unbearable.

But Murtagh didn't plan to bear it much longer. He had, the moment it made contact; blistering, searing contact; pushed out with his arms, as hard as he could, and leant backwards, releasing the metal. His elven strength propelled him, spinning, away from the centre of the pit of coals. He extended his legs outwards, praying that they would met the floor, meaning he had cleared the pit, rather than plunge him back into the pain that he had felt burning away at his hands.

They landed on a thin surface, and Murtagh realised that he had jumped onto the rim of the wooden pit. He did another flip to land on the floor; a little flashy, perhaps, but he felt like showing off after evading an almost inevitable fall into a pit of torture that only one of the most twisted minds could ever come up with. He was allowed a little pride for that. Though his hands were puffed up, red, and sore, he would much rather that than his legs in the same condition.

The king was furious; his magician stupefied. The other assistants were aghast, and had dropped their ropes in shock, leaving the iron bar in the furnace. Taiven was the only one who seemed pleasantly surprised at what had happened, yet the pleasure soon faded as Orrin spoke, his anger obvious.

"Well, it appears that you have achieved that which I thought was impossible. Several before you have failed to evade the pain to any vast extent. Were he alive, Zimar would be shocked."

"Zimar's dead?"

"Yes. Now shut up and get on the bed of nails. That ought to cause you definite pain." Murtagh's mouth dropped open in shock as the other men moved towards him.

Two of the assistants lifted Murtagh by the legs as the large magician grabbed his arms from behind. "Do not struggle!" came the voice of Orrin, halting Murtagh in his efforts to kick the men away. He had been allowed to do that, as Orrin had told him to try to avoid the pain, but the new command counteracted that.

"Lower him onto it gently, we don't want him too injured." Grunts of acknowledgement came from the men. They walked him over to the bed of nails. They looked sharp. Sharp and painful. He was stretched out flat. And then he touched the nails.

The thousands of infinitely sharp points just pressed against him, supporting him, even as the men let go of him, though the pressure did increase.

It was because his body was spread across them so much that his weight was absorbed, even by the sharp points. Their combined surface area kept him up. But then, he realised that if he sat up or attempted to push himself off, the lack of adequate surface area in contact with the spikes would make them sink into him past the skin, which held for the moment due to the spread of his body weight. Trying to launch himself upwards with his elven strength would not work this time, he realised. For one thing, his arms were tired from holding himself up on the previous torture machine, and for another, he would simply impale his hands.

The only feasible solution was to wait it out. Orrin wouldn't shove him down onto the spikes and risk damaging a major organ. He just lay there, feeling the pressure of the the spikes all over his body.

Suddenly, the spikes under his head seemed to vanish, and the remaining spikes pushed into him quite a bit more, though they didn't quite draw blood. His eyes darted around, looking for a cause, but only seeing the ceiling, until Orrin leered over him.

"I don't want anything permanent to happen to you, so I'm removing the needles below anything vital or irreparable and simultaneously causing those remaining to start to penetrate your skin at the same time. Zimar's idea. He liked that sort of thing. I seem to recall he spent a lot of time cutting people up and seeing how they died. Delightful. But anyway, back to business." He ducked back under the table, and a few seconds later there was a small clatter and a number of needles under his torso were removed, though not all of them.

A thousand tiny, ice-cold splinters seemed to scatter themselves across his arms, legs, and parts of his back, quickly followed by a sensation of a hot liquid soaking through his clothes and coating the splinters, changing them from an unpleasant cold to an equally strange warm and sticky feeling that spread across almost all of his back, and he realised that it was his blood.

Orrin appeared over him again, and laughed at the sight of the blood trickling down the sides of the needles, before darting back down under the table and removing a few other needles. The metal sunk further into him, and the King then leant over the needles, looking down into Murtagh's eyes.

"Do you want me to stop? To end your pain? To put a halt to your torture? All you have to do is beg. Go on, ask. I will, you know." Murtagh slowly shook his head, putting a look of shock on Orrin's face and prompting the question, "Why?"

"Because if you're torturing me, you aren't torturing her, and she's innocent, well, more so than me, and I don't want to see a friend in pain." Orrin laughed, and Murtagh heard a slight gasp from Taiven.

"How noble of you, Murtagh. Take him off!" The assistants and the magician grabbed him and hoisted him off the bed of nails, blood trickling out of almost his whole back half and pooling in a puddle at his feet as they set him upright. He swayed, finding it hard to stand, but at a command from Orrin, a man in the shadows spoke a spell of healing, or he would be quickly weakened due to the loss of blood.

"It is less satisfying to watch torture, even as good as this, when the tortured person takes the punishment purposefully. Instead, Taiven shall suffer due to your good conscience. For shame, Murtagh Morzansson. You have caused pain to your... friend. If you had said a smart reply or something, I would have left you to your own suffering. However, I can tell now that this will bring the both of you more pain." Rage covered Murtagh's face, and anger flared up in his heart, while sorrow, sympathy and fear were written all over Taiven's features as Orrin walked over to the largest machine of them all, the massive structure on the left with the wheel.

"Come on then! Hurry up, Taiven." She was forced to walk towards the King, and Murtagh made to follow, to try and change what would happen for the better in any way he could, but Orrin raised a hand to stop him. "Hold it! Stay where you are, Murtagh. You lot, get over here!" The assistants rushed over, to clamp the wooden stocks onto her feet and hands. The foot part was snapped and locked into place, and Orrin ordered her to raise her hands, at which the tall magician pulled the ropes downwards and clamped the second set of stocks around her wrists, before walking to the side of the frame as four of the other men took hold of the ropes connected to the stocks at the top. Fear was in her eyes as they began to pull on the ropes, stretching her arms upwards until they were tight enough for her legs to begin to leave the ground. The other rope at her legs was uncoiled a bit, until it too was taunt. She was stretched out straight, her back to the wheel that would pound it with its ridges and lumps, though Murtagh didn't think the pain from that would be anywhere near the pain that he had experienced from his own torture, that is, until the magician pushed the wheel, on its axle, into a socket in the wood that it obviously fitted into, illuminating something that he had previously failed to notice on the wheel in the light from the dark flame, still hovering in roughly the centre of the room.

The sides of the wheel were covered in specks of glass, sparkling ominously in the strange lighting.

As it rolled into its socket, it pushed against Taiven's back, drawn up tight, bending it forwards in an arch and ripping into her with the glass at the same time.

She screamed, a high-pitched yell of pain and horror that reverberated through the room, making Murtagh wince.

The men, and Orrin, laughed manically as Murtagh glared at the lot of them in fury. The biggest, the magician, took hold of a handle attached to the side of the wheel, beginning to spin it around and driving even more shards of the glass into her back. Some stayed lodged in the place they met, remaining in her back, while some others continued on, ripping her skin still further, scrawling bloody lines along her back. She screamed again. Anyone would have.

Murtagh was forced to watch, powerless, as the machine continued to tear apart her back. Orrin was a monster to do such a thing. Who would make such a painful, convoluted weapon of torture with a good conscience?

"Co-designed between me, Zimar, and Hugran over there, all this. I thought of the nails, the concepts of the pit and the wheel went to Zimar, though Hugran added the glass. He also made the table of torture over there; extremely, extremely crude, but quite effective. Like most things he does." Orrin had guessed what he was thinking, or just answered anyway.

Taiven swore at the top of her voice, cursing Orrin, Hugran-the man who was at the wheel-and everything they stood for as loud as she could. They just laughed, and Hugran turned the wheel faster, a manic grin on his face as the machine of torture tore into the Rider's skin even more, though she did not cry out, and Orrin soon ordered Hugran to stop, as he was beginning to get tired, and Taiven wasn't in a good state at all. The ropes were lowered, and the stocks were soon removed from her hands and feet, letting her fall to the floor, almost unconscious.

Murtagh glanced at Orrin, both angry and questioning, and Orrin nodded, saying, "You can heal her if you wish, for it will only reduce the energy my men spend."

Murtagh immediately rushed over to her and muttered spells of healing, whilst giving her some of his energy. Her eyes flickered open, and she blinked at him thankfully as her wounds healed. He nodded back, whispering, "I'm sorry."

Her eyes widened for a second, then she said, "There is nothing to be sorry for," and stood back up. Orrin's men immediately grabbed her again, and at a signal, walked over to the very last machine of torture, dragging her with them. It was a simple table with strips of metal in place to hold down arms, legs, and a neck. The torturer could choose from a number of cruel instruments of pain to stab, slash, and tear at the flesh of the victim. The brutal simplicity of the design sent shivers down Murtagh's spine.

Taiven's arms were strapped first, then her legs, and then Orrin strapped a curved bit of metal over her neck and walked over to a rack of weapons to the side. He selected a sharp blade, with barbed edges near the tip, gripping it like a dagger and advancing towards his niece with it, ready to strike. Her eyes revealed her fear of the pain that was to come as Murtagh raged mentally at what was about to happen. Orrin gazed down coldly, a distinct lack of care in his eyes as he prepared to stab her.

"Have fun, Taiven." He brought the blade down.

Another scream rang through the room.

Miremel barely suppressed a roar as searing-hot-burning-pain raced across her belly, though she saw nothing there upon inspecting the site of the pain. Taiven had been hurt, and the strength of their bond, while somehow diminished, carried the pain across to her regardless. Her Rider was not in a good condition, and there was nothing Miremel could do. She was trapped, unable to escape or even take away some of the pain that Taiven was feeling, helpless in the face of those who hurt her partner-of-heart-and-mind! The thought was a truly terrible one for any bonded dragon, whose duty was to protect their Rider.

A jolt of pain slid across one of her front legs, the right one, and again she managed to halt any sound, unwilling to appear weak in front of Thorn, who was in a cage next to her. They were on the side of a hill where the Surdan army had camped, outside the formerly-white-but-now-stained-with-blood-city, and she could see the troops of the Empire advancing towards it. She hoped that they would be seen, found, and therefore freed, but she thought it unlikely that any of the soldiers would bother to look past the city that was their target, and even if they did, without the eyesight of an elf they would have a hard time to spot the two dragons.

Glancing to the side, she noticed that Thorn seemed angry at something, and she realised that he was feeling the same emotions as Murtagh was, even with the weakened bond. Murtagh himself must have been extremely angry for the emotions to carry over to Thorn in that strength with the bond at its most rudimentary level. Miremel herself felt a flash of great rage from her partner, then she felt a large pain again, this time on one of her back legs. Letting out a low growl, she lay down, waiting for the pain her Rider was going through to stop.

It was a long wait.

A few hours later, the pains had stopped, as had the soldiers of the Empire, who were closer to the city by then. Miremel could see them setting up camp, a way from the city, and a group of people were emerging from the city and heading towards her and Thorn on horseback. She snapped and let out a burst of flame, knowing that they were Surdans.

As they got closer, she began to make out their faces, recognising one as Orrin, and noticing that both Taiven and Murtagh were following behind the twelve other men that surrounded the King, weariness and rage on both their faces. The King opened the door to her cage, and she drummed her claws on the floor, frustrated that she could not tear him from head to foot as she would have wished. Taiven stumbled into the cage, falling next to Miremel's side, as Thorn roared at Orrin and Murtagh entered the other cage. Miremel wrapped a wing around her Rider, tucking her head in and looking into her eyes, seeing the pain they contained, as Orrin spoke from outside the cages.

"You are my greatest weapons, and you will rest now. At dawn, the day after tomorrow, you will be needed to fight. Until then, I will leave you these provisions and your own thoughts." The sounds of hooves started again, heading back towards the city, but Miremel was only concentrating on Taiven. Their bond was stronger than it had been, but they still could not communicate mentally.

Taiven whispered, quietly, "Miremel, when will we escape this?"

Unable to talk, Miremel just blinked and rested her head next to her Rider, who wrapped her arms around it and gazed into Miremel's eyes as they drifted into sleep, holding onto each other in the seemingly hopeless situation in which they found themselves. The war would come, and it would claim man lives. Not even they were truly safe from the prospect of eternal separation from each other, despite the strength and power that all dragons and Riders possessed.

The war would take its toll, but who would it take?


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45: Back in Alagaesia.**

Arya woke, the light of the sun shining down through the trees down into the clearing. It hit her eyes, and she blinked, temporarily blinded, before glancing around to see Firnen and Saphira stretching and starting to stand, the saddlebags ready and packed, and Eragon sitting up, gazing at her lovingly. She smiled at him, and he smiled back as she got to her feet and wrapped up the blankets she had been sleeping on, walking over to the saddlebags and stuffing them in. She turned to see Eragon standing too.

"Are you going to try out the other variation to that spell now? It's as good a time as any." She nodded, preparing to use magic.

"I'll just cast it on myself for now. You'll have to test the barriers for me." So saying, she started to recite the spell that she had invented the previous night, with a few modifications.

"Se iet huginar abr waise solkiro fra du huginar abr skulbkar, alfakyn, dvergar, un mernyar, mar se iet huginar un du huginar abr iet fricayae thverr du solkir!"

May my thoughts be shielded from the thoughts of dragons, elves, dwarves, and men, but may my thoughts and the thoughts of my friends traverse the shield!

She reached out her mind to her surroundings, encountering no resistance, and she felt Eragon's mind reach out to hers, likewise meeting no barriers. The barriers would let them both pass then. The only problem was that they didn't know if the barriers worked at all. Being in mental contact, they both worked that out at the same time, so Arya released the spell and cast another, leaving out the "and the thoughts of my friends" part.

"Se iet huginar abr waise solkiro fra du huginar abr skulblakar, alfakyn, dvergar, un mernyar, mar se iet huginar thverr du solkir!"

Eragon again reached out his mind to her; she could feel it with her own, which passed through the seemingly invisible barrier with ease. Eragon's mind, however, seemed to be held back by something, though she could not feel it. His mind attacked the air and empty space outside her mind, or so it seemed, again and again, the only effect being a small decrease in her energy. She allowed herself a small grin, retaliating with her own mind as she did so. She easily swept aside his defences in a single assault, noting his shock as she did so, and said, _Well, I think that experiment worked, don't you?_ He nodded.

_A little too well. My barriers are decimated._ She laughed, lightly, feeling his pleasure as he heard the soft, entrancing sound of an elven laugh, or at least, that was what he thought of it, making her laugh even more. He was pathetic around her sometimes, he really was.

_Well, we should go now. That's tested, and we need to head for Ilirea._ He acknowledged her statement, and they separated, grabbing the dragons' saddles and strapping them on before mounting up and setting off on two of the greatest creatures in the world.

Saphira and Firnen soared over the green pines that extended for so many leagues, unbroken in almost every direction. The green forests seemed the colour of his scales; the blue skies the colour of hers. They looked at one with the world around them, and together they were one with each other, as they were with their respective Riders, and their Riders were with each other. It was a flight with all the fliers intimately linked to each other, whether through a Rider bond, a bond of everlasting love, or being in a Rider bond and a bond of everlasting love with two people that the other shared the same bonds with, though for the opposite people, no matter how confusing it seemed.

They should, by rights, be happy, in the company of those they cared about the most, but duty denied them that luxury. They were flying to save a continent; they had been for over a week, and they hadn't even reached it yet. It was two days since Eragon had contacted Roran; two days since the fall of Ilirea; two days since the attempt on Roran's life; and one day since Solembum had returned to the Varden with the news of Orrin's plans to hold the city rather than attack outside of it, barring any unpredicted issues. They were speeding back to the lands they grew up in with all haste, but for a long time, the forest below refused to change in its green expanses.

_Then,_ Saphira said, _I see something I recognise, Eragon, and you know it too. We were here for our training. We have re-entered Alagaesia. No prophecy is inevitable._

_What do you see, partner-of-my-mind? Where is it that you have spotted?_ He rubbed her neck in anticipation and laughed in his mind, _Saphira, we're back!_

She snorted as well, as did Firnen._ I know, little one. I hoped we would see Alagaesia again, and it gives me hope to know that we can indeed tread these lands again._

_Saphira, you doubted it?_

_I will admit that I was afraid it might come true, though I did not expect it to,_ came the sharp reply. Eragon laughed.

_The pride of a dragon knows no bounds._

_Stop teasing, Eragon._

_Sorry._

_Little one, I'm surprised at you,_ Saphira remarked, amusement in her mind, but Eragon was confused.

_What do you mean, Saphira?_

_Normally, you would have pressed me for an answer to your question, but you let it lie instead,_ she observed.

_Sorry. So, where are we headed? What have you seen?_

_The Stone of Broken Eggs._

The two dragons alighted lightly, hurriedly. Saphira had insisted on stopping to quickly tell Firnen about the history of the place, but Eragon could tell that she wanted to stop to prove that they indeed could set foot in the continent.

Saphira breathed deeply as her claws touched the rocks, saying_, I never thought, Eragon, when I was rejected by Glaedr, that I would one day return here with a mate of my own. It is a great relief to finally be able to. Now, little one, let us see if you can touch the floor, yes?_ Eragon nodded.

_It is good to be back._ So saying, Eragon unstrapped his legs from the saddle, jumped down onto Saphira's foreleg, then leapt down towards the floor.

An invisible force stopped him a foot off the ground. Eragon yelled, and waved his hands and feet around, but his legs were locked in position. He couldn't touch the floor. He couldn't set foot in the continent of his birth. He couldn't go anywhere without Saphira. Panic began to take a hold on him.

Saphira snorted in surprise at what had happened, smoke puffing out of her mouth. She swept a claw under him, encountering no resistance. Eragon was locked in position by invisible bonds. He glanced around, wondering if he would ever move again, before he caught a glimpse of Arya out of the corner of his eyes.

She was next to Firnen, grinning at him, one hand on her dragon's leg. Her Gedwey Ignasia was glowing lightly.

"Arya! Let me go!" She laughed, captivating him for a second, before waving her hand and he fell awkwardly to the floor. As he pulled himself to his feet, Saphira roared at Arya, though not as loud as she could.

_That was not funny! You gave me a shock! _Both Arya and Firnen were laughing then, and even Eragon began to see the funny side. He chuckled lightly as Saphira glanced from Arya, to him, to Firnen, then snorted and beckoned to Firnen with her tail. They walked off, leaving Eragon and Arya alone. She sat down on the edge of the cliff, and he sat next to her, just happy to be in her company for a few minutes. She was the one who broke the silence.

"I saw from your memories that you sometimes exchange riddles with Saphira in flight. I have a riddle that I think may confuse you. Would you like to hear it?" He nodded, intrigued, and she spoke it.

_I am pure and I am true,_

_I come from both me, and you,_

_I could make you laugh, or cry,_

_So tell me now, what am I?_

Eragon was bewildered for a second, then he asked, "Can I have a clue?" She grinned, then nodded.

"It is within me, a part of who I am." The answer confused Eragon even more.

_What could be within her, coming from me and her?_ Then, an answer struck him, and he gasped, though Arya seemed puzzled by his reaction.

"What?" she asked. His mouth had fallen open onto an "O."

"Arya..." he trailed off, looking at her. She narrowed her eyes, then they widened in realisation.

"Eragon! That's not the answer!" She shoved him, laughing. Surprised, he almost fell off the cliff, but she grabbed his arm before he could and pulled him firmly back up. He sat down again.

"So, you're not..." She cut in as he trailed off.

"No, Eragon, I'm not pregnant. The answer to the riddle was True Love!" Eragon closed his eyes in shock at his idiocy. How could he make a mistake like that? He sensed Saphira laughing through their bond.

_Little one, you really know how to mess up, don't you? Even I didn't think you'd do that!_

They flew on to Ellesmera, though Eragon suggested that they take a roundabout route to avoid the Menoa tree. While he guessed it meant him no harm, he couldn't tell for sure, and he would rather stay away from it. They wanted to speak to Dathedr, and Arya guessed that he might be in the Tialdari hall, if he hadn't left with the elven army, and they could scry him from there if he had. Firnen touched Eragon's mind.

_Eragon, this is the quickest way to get to a mirror, but only one dragon will fit at a time. I shall go first, as I am more used to the rather cramped conditions_. Eragon sent acknowledgement through the link, and Firnen landed first, in a small courtyard. Arya dismounted him, and he took off again, before Saphira began to descend.

She first dived down for a bit, past the level of the trees on either side. It was hard for her to discern the courtyard, as it, like the top of the hall, was green. However, by honing in on Arya's mind, and spotting the ruffled grass where Firnen had landed, she was able to locate it.

Then came the harder part. Levelling out, she flapped slowly, descending in a controlled manner, until she was a few feet above the gap in the roof that led down to the landing place. Looking from side to side, Eragon noticed that her wings were a bit too wide to fit in the gap. She growled at him when he pointed it out, bending them inwards awkwardly in an attempt to make them fit, but the change in their shape meant that she lost control of her flight for a second, but she extended her wings and caught herself before she could fall.

Eragon couldn't see any way for her to land. They would have to go the long way around. He was about to tell her when she clasped her wings to her sides and fell, feet outstretched, to the ground. He yelped as she crashed into the grassy courtyard, and fell out of the saddle, which he had forgotten to strap himself into. He rolled to break his fall as Saphira glanced at him, then stood up and looked around at the hall.

Beautiful arches and flowers surrounded him, but he paid them little attention as he walked over to two things even more beautiful; Arya and Saphira. The partner of his mind radiated pleasure as he thought that.

_Thank you, Eragon._ He put a hand on her leg in companionship, before she sprung up, only unfurling her wings once her leap carried her up and out of the courtyard. Eragon smiled as she flew upwards to Firnen, soaring, surfing on the updrafts over the city as she flew, free, in the sky. He and Arya turned as one and went into the hall, arm in arm, in search of a mirror.

It appeared to Eragon that Tialdari hall was empty, or almost empty. None had emerged to greet two rather noisy dragons landing in the middle of it, and walking through, he saw no elves relaxing, talking, or anything else, which was unusual for the Hall. Eragon concluded that all the elves, or at least the majority, had gone to help fight against the Surdans, though he did not know where they would have assembled.

Arya led him up to another level of the building, up stairs that were worn down little, though they did appear to be older than some other parts in the building. Arya confidently led him forwards and opened a door in front of them.

They walked into a large room, side by side. There was light streaming through a large window at the side, hitting a large double bed in the centre of the room. Unlike Eragon's expectations for such an important looking room, it was not a four-poster, though it was well decorated. On one side of the room, there were several comfortable chairs and a table. Along the wall on the right were several Fairths. The vast majority were of people he didn't know, but the second last one was Islanzadi, and the very last was Arya. He realised that they were fairths of all the Kings and Queens of the past, in chronological order. Which had to mean...

He looked to the Fairth to the right of Islanzadi's, noting the similarities between his face and Arya's. The green eyes, the longish nose, and the kind and just expression on his face seemed somewhat familiar, and as he glanced at Islanzadi's picture, he noticed similarities there as well. Then, a hand tapped his shoulder, and he turned to see Arya.

"As you have probably guessed, that is Evandar, my father, and this is the room of the Monarch of the elves. The Fairths are of past monarchs. And, obviously, the present one." He smiled and nodded, before the pair walked over to a large mirror next to one of the chairs.

Eragon spoke the words of the scrying spell, mentally conjuring up an image of Dathedr, and the mirror went blank, before revealing a very tired looking Lord, sitting in a meeting hall. He was resting his head on his hands, and there was no one else in the room. Arya spoke first, to get his attention.

"Dathedr." He jerked up, glancing around wildly, before noticing the Queen in the mirror and twisting his hand over his sternum as a gesture of respect.

"Your Majesty, Eragon. What do you want, and why are you not continuing straight on to Ilirea? You are needed there more than you are in Ellesmera."

"I wished to contact you, to find out what is going on with the other Elven Lords, and what they think about the current crisis." Dathedr sighed.

"The Lords are not happy. We had a meeting when you told me about the Surdan threat, and they weren't exactly pleased with you before I told them. When I did, they were furious at you. I very highly suspect that all but maybe two; myself, and Lady Tirneln; will vote to remove you from your Throne. I have suspected this for quite a while." Mild surprise registered on Arya's features for a second, but not a bad sort of surprise. Dathedr looked at her curiously, even after she had regained her composure enough to speak.

"You mean, they will force me to abdicate?" Dathedr nodded. "How long have you known this?"

"Since we last spoke." Arya raised her eyebrows.

"And what have you been doing about it? Trying to persuade them not to?" The Lord shook his head.

"I feared that convincing twenty-two elves that are determined that you should give up the throne to let you keep it will be even harder than it sounds. I did nothing for a time, until I overheard Lord Fiolr attempting to win over other Lords to convince them to vote for him instead as King. Cenat told me that Indarith was doing the same. Since then, I resolved that it was a lost cause to attempt to keep you on the Throne, and that I would attempt to put the person I thought best there instead. That person, thankfully, not being Indarith or Fiolr, but myself. After I came to that realisation, I have been attempting to garner support. Out of the twenty-four elf Lords, including myself, approximately eight or nine have promised their votes to me. Four or five are stubbornly against me; ten or so more are currently undecided, as far as I can tell. It will take thirteen one way or the other to win the vote. I have been trying to swing the remainder's decisions constantly over the past weeks, resulting in my current state, and my journey here, to Osilon, with the entire elven army, has been tiring as well."

He didn't look all too good. His hair was ruffled, his eyes tired; he had evidently been doing a lot over the past week or so, including travelling to Osilon. The pressure he had heaped on himself must have been immense.

"It seems like you have been working hard to do what is right, Dathedr. If an abdicated Queen has the right to vote, I shall vote for you. You are, it would seem, the best suited for this position, if I am to step down." Dathedr appeared shocked with her statement.

"So, you are possibly considering stepping down yourself? You don't appear to be too displeased with this turn of events, so I would guess it is so." Eragon was surprised at the astuteness of Dathedr's guess. He knew that Arya was doubting her will to lead the elves, but he didn't know it would be that obvious.

"I am merely offering you my support in the case of myself being forced off the Throne, not hinting in any way that I want to be forced off the Throne. The very case of being forced to abdicate indicates a willingness not to abdicate in itself, or the abdication would not be forced. This much, I think, is quite obvious." Dathedr didn't seem all too convinced, and he switched to the ancient language.

"Do you want to step down yourself, though?" Arya drew herself up and opened her mouth, but no words came out. She shut it then, starting on a different sentence.

"I have no wish to be forced to step down." Dathedr raised an elegant eyebrow at the statement.

"That was not the question. Do you want to step down?" Eragon could see no way around the answer for Arya. She was backed into a corner, as far as he could tell.

"Dathedr, I hereby swear that I shall not step down of my own will." Dathedr nodded, appearing satisfied, though Eragon could tell what Arya was doing. She wanted to step down, and though she now could not of her own will, she was likely to be forced off the Throne anyway, keeping to both her wishes and her promise. It was a subtle difference, a ploy which Dathedr did not seem to have noticed, though the slip-up may have been due in part to his exhaustion. Also, he realised, she had not specified what she would step down from, rendering the promise useless anyway if she had really meant step down from something else.

"I thank you for your reassurance, Arya Drottning. However, I fear that while the Lords will refrain from forcing you to abdicate during the current war, or risk destabilising the effectiveness of the elves' contributions to the war on the side of Jormundur, and will probably allow you to remain upon the Throne for a period of time afterwards, if you do anything that surprises them, affects their politics, or is reckless and unconsulted in their eyes, they will force you off the Throne anyway, war or no war."

"And what surprising or reckless actions will result in a forceful abdication?" Arya was acting as if concerned for the Throne, willing to keep it, though Eragon knew that she was against such an event. In the position of the casual observer, he watched the talk unfold silently, noting the political trickery, tactics, and implied threats which were actually encouragement on Dathedr's part, and admiring Arya for being able to stand up to the questions and give nothing of her dislike of the Throne away at the same time. He was sure that he would be unable to do the same in her place.

"A reckless decision such as charging into battle unprepared and with little support would likely shock them into the premature decision, and something that would be both surprising and that would highly affect their politics would be, for example, you taking a mate outside the usual circles of Lords and high ranked elves that Queens generally take for mates, as they would not expect it, and another elf with high amounts of influence over you would be a serious factor to take into account with any sort of decision-making process of importance, as your decisions may not be fully your own." Both Dathedr and Arya kept their eyes steady, though Eragon barely managed to refrain from shooting Arya a glance in surprise, reducing the movement to a small flicker in his gaze, though Dathedr still seemed to notice it. Luckily, he didn't comment on what must have seemed to him to be a large giveaway or lapse in concentration, though the movement would have been unnoticeable to any human.

"I thank you for your advice and assistance, Lord Dathedr, maybe soon to be Dathedr Konungr. May the stars watch over you." Eragon terminated the spell at her signal, the image fading away. She put her arm around him, pulling him close, and he didn't resist. He never could resist anything she did.

"Are you worried in any way as to the future of the Throne?" he asked her, quietly, and she nodded sharply.

"I know that the elves will be well off whoever is chosen as the Monarch. All the elven Lords know how to take care of them to the smallest degree. What I am concerned about is how a new ruler would deal with their relationships with the other races. Dathedr said that Fiolr and Indarith were both hoping to become the Monarch. This is not good news. Fiolr is slightly against the other races on a whole, which could be one of his reasons for attaching to Tamerlien the conditions he did when you saw it, although admittedly those he gave to me were not much better. Indarith, on the other hand, is much more opposed to other races, humans in particular, mainly because of Galbatorix. This will mean three things: one, she will immediately cut off any support, alliances, or agreements between the elves and the Empire upon coming to power, meaning that she would call of the entire elven war effort as soon as she could: two, she will be opposed to you and any of your actions: and three, she will be vigorously against the two of us being together as we are, not that it'll ever change anything." They both smiled at each other, before Arya returned to the conversation.

"While either Indarith or Fiolr as a possible ruler does nothing to encourage me to leave the Throne, I seriously doubt that either of them has a chance. With eight or nine promised votes, and a distinct chance of more, Dathedr would likely win against the both of them combined, though it would be close in that situation. In answer to your question, the prospect worries me, though I seriously doubt it shall come to pass." He slowly nodded, and they turned to go down the steps back to the courtyard so their dragons could pick them up. However, she did something he did not expect.

As they walked towards the steps, she picked up speed a bit, and, ignoring his curious glance, quickly jumped down onto the first step, before proceeding to walk normally down to the bottom of the steps, Eragon gazing down in somewhat bewilderment at her. She glanced up, laughing at his expression.

"Why did you..."

"Jump down the step? You heard my promise to Dathedr, right? As you probably worked out, I didn't say what I would not step down from of my own free will. In my mind, I meant step down from that step, and I said nothing about jumping down from it. Technically, I have obeyed the bonds of my oath and retained perfect freedom."

"But you still have to jump down every time you use the step."

"True, but this is the room of the monarch. I don't intend to be using it for much longer!" The two of them laughed. Away from the trappings of circumstance, duty, and politics, they just relaxed, their laughter echoing through the leafy Tialdari halls. It was a relief to just get away from the seriousness of the situation and be happy with just each other for company.

Eragon began to make his way down the stairs himself, but something made him hesitate, taking a final glance around the royal chambers. Just as he was about to start going down, he caught a glimpse of a figure forming itself on the mirror. Stopping, he gazed at it for a second before recognising the man and calling to Arya, still at the bottom of the steps.

"Arya, come up here. Quickly."

"What is it?" she asked, running up the stairs, and Eragon simply gestured to the mirror as she reached the top in a matter of seconds and gasped in surprise.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46: Negotiations.**

Orrin looked at the couple of elves by the entrance with contempt in his eyes. They might be the Riders, the leaders, they might think they were clever, but this was his play for power, his plan of conquest, and he had known what they would do and prepared for it. They might be mighty indeed, but his political ingenuity would halt the attacks from the elves, dwarves, and Urgals, reducing it to merely a battle between the humans inside Ilirea, which were more, and those outside the Capital, which were a lesser force. His domination of the humans would be swift and complete. He grinned at the thought.

In the image on his mirror, which was located in Nausada's old rooms in Ilirea, he saw a green room, well decorated, light shining through a wide window looking out onto a forest canopy with a couple of dragons, blue and green, flying around, though they soon swooped down towards the window. A large bed that rivalled the one he now slept in was to the left as he saw it, and relaxing chairs were arranged next to the window that framed the two rapidly advancing shapes of the dragons. All of those things he was focused on more than that which would have demanded his attention the most had he been in any other position, though as it was, he was inclined to ignore them, as they had he for so long. It was only fair, their payback for their misdeeds.

The Queen of the elves, Arya, was advancing towards him in the mirror, rage in her eyes, and there was no less rage in the eyes of Eragon as he quickly followed her to the space in front of the mirror. They had never liked him, they had put him down. Now, they would be below him! The Riders had swords the colours of their dragons on their hips, the dragons themselves poking their massive heads into the room, though they failed to break anything, to Orrin's disappointment. The furniture withstood their bulk, refusing to even creak.

The two stopped before the mirror, looking at Orrin, and he back at them. Eragon was wearing a loose green tunic and leggings of a strange elven fabric, as was Queen Arya, though she also wore a gleaming diadem. In contrast, Orrin wore dark brown leather shoes with metal on the soles, to make the clicking sound when he walked. His cape, black, yet tinged with orange around the edges to represent Surda, hung from his shoulders, darkly impressive. Nausada's crown, recovered from Dras-Leona, sat upon his head. He also wore a tight shirt, black, and leggings, likewise. His sword, though hardly comparable to theirs, was around the belt at his hip, which was likewise recovered from Dras-Leona, though at a different time to that of the Surdan conquest. It was his prize from the war, a belt of twelve pure diamonds, though concealed. Not concealed was the look of contempt on the King's face. He would enjoy his moment of revelation to them.

"Eragon, Arya, how nice of you to show up, though I do believe you shall be late. It is a pity; I would have liked you to see the show. You will, however, probably make it in time to see the conclusion of my act: the final count of the bodies of my enemies." Anger flashed in Eragon's eyes. Orrin would have cringed if he was on the other side of the mirror. Luckily, he wasn't, so he just grinned a bit more.

"We will stop you. Our armies march from Osilon within the day. Our troops are better trained and better skilled than yours by far. Our speed is greater than you know. We shall stop you." It was Arya who spoke, and the King raised a questioning eyebrow.

"'Our' armies, you say? Are you both the leaders of the elves, then? The King and Queen?" The both of them recoiled slightly, barely noticeable, and Eragon leant on his back foot, attempting to edge away slightly and indiscernibly. Orrin recognised such things from many of his political enemies and allies in his courts. He had to notice everything as King.

"No, I merely meant that we shall be the ones leading the elves into battle, if into battle they go. And into battle they shall go, Orrin, you can rest assured on that." Arya was attempting to cover up the situation, though he knew better than to accept the change of subject when he had the chance to unnerve the two even further.

"Oh, Arya, you meant that you are leading them into battle? As their leaders? The elf leaders are the King and Queen, as I should think you know, being the Queen yourself. And as you said, you are the leaders, therefore you two are both the King and Queen, and, as you put it, I believe mates. How quaint. How... animalistic. So then, tell me, when did you succumb to your primal desires?" He loved seeing how Eragon's ears were slowly going bright red, and he was shooting glances at Arya, as if nervously. He loved the way he was getting steadily angrier and angrier; he could see it in his eyes. He loved how Arya would undoubtedly attempt to take control of the situation again, as, sure enough, she did.

"And when did you succumb to the childish dream of commanding a race? I suggest you grow up and stop living in fruitless dreams. You should know, no race will stand for inequality in Alagaesia now. We work together and fight it to the last breath."

"Ah, but you won't this time. And anyway, stop evading the question. When did you-"

"ENOUGH! We have many better things to do than listening to your pathetic words, Orrin, and I presume you have other interests yourself, so let us turn to a topic of conversation more befitting of both the current situation and our positions." Eragon's outburst was the first thing he had added to the conversation, and Orrin immediately jumped at the opportunity to annoy them further.

"But what of your own interests..." he said, his eyes shifting to Arya. The anger radiating from Eragon at that moment was immense, and Orrin grinned. Annoying the Riders was fun.

"You would do well, Orrin, if you were to annoy me no further, or I may just happen to kill you more painfully than necessary when we meet at Ilirea." Eragon's hand was clenched around the hilt of his sword, his brown eyes serious, so Orrin hurriedly switched the topic.

"Ah, but it shall be your death that is the painful one, for I shall conquer your pitiful cousin and his King, their armies, and the rest of the humans before you even arrive, and you cannot face a city on your own. I have Ilirea-"

"Ilirea has no gate! No defences! A child could walk right in; it should not be hard for an army!" The king's eyes narrowed.

"Ah, but I have people they cannot combat, weapons even you cannot shield yourselves from, more men than them, more cavalry than them, better trained forces than them, and our victory is pretty much assured from that, defences or no defences."

"You surely underestimate the advantages of morale, determination, and good leadership, for Jormundur has all of those on his side. Your head, I can tell you, will be smashed apart within days and put on a spike for the crows to feed on! All the races will spit on your grave, for it shall be all of them which cast you down!" Eragon had started a bit of a rant, and Arya touched his arm to calm him down. Orrin gestured to the movement.

"See what I mean? It's obvious. But in all seriousness, all the races are unable to get to me in time. Though I doubt not the speed of the elves, nor their skill, nor the ferocity and endurance of the Urgals, nor the persistence and grit (no pun intended) of the dwarves, but politically they are unable to attack me in any way." Puzzlement appeared upon Eragon's face, comprehension then contempt showing on Arya's, and it was she who spoke.

"They have not sworn peaceful alliances to you, but to Nausada, the High Queen, and her kingdom. You are exempt from that." Orrin shook his head slowly, a small smirk appearing on his face.

"Ah, but I am not exempt. Swearing to the High Queen and the kingdom was what the races did, and in that, they swore their peace to whoever would inherit those positions as well, of course, or there would be the tedious process of re-swearing allegiances and such to go through with each new appointment, which does not happen with changes of rule, yet the allegiance remains. As the High King upon the Throne at Ilirea, in control of it, with the vast majority of the Empire and more troops than any other factions, wearing the crown of the Ruler, having declared myself High King with no opposition from within the city, I am by right the High King. This you cannot deny, therefore you cannot act as leaders of the elves and attack me with the troops you possess, though as Riders you have full right to act by yourselves, though you shall make little difference when you arrive a day or two after the last resistance to my rule has been eliminated. The other races, all of them, politically and legally, cannot attack me, as any judge or dwarf reader-of-law shall tell you. The resistance to me from the other races has ended, before it even began." The faces of the Riders fell, and they seemed to lose focus on the King for a second, apparently conversing mentally with each other and the dragons, who were both looking and growling in the King's general direction rather menacingly.

He waited a few seconds, then a few more, beginning to get slightly impatient, and then both Eragon and Arya turned around and said in unison, "For one thing, we are not leaders of the elves, as we are not the King and Queen, for another, why can the elves not simply declare war on you anyway, despite the treaty, thus invalidating it, even as you did with Nausada, and also, how did you manage to break your vows of peace and friendship to the Empire and attack it yourself?"

"The King is the mate of the Queen, no? Anyway, surely to break the treaty yourselves would be for one thing unlawful, for another immoral, and along with that against your vows? In answer to your question, I promised peace and friendship from Surda. Surda is being perfectly peaceful. It is staying there, down in the south, a piece of land, not going to war with the Empire or anything. However, its people and its government are, but they are separate from the land, which is what I referred to as 'Surda' when I spoke. Your promises of goodwill, however, were not half-lies, and so you cannot break them and allow the elves to go to war with me." The looks on both their faces were shocked and somewhat distraught, the same expression on each, causing Orrin to grin. It was only Arya who spoke this time.

"The King is the mate of the Queen, yes, but only once accepted and officially announced to the elves. Unlawfulness and immorality I can take if it means getting you out of power, yet the vows pose a problem. However, elves or no elves, we can take you down the moment we arrive. Remember the Eldunari you were told about during the war? With less than a hundred at the start, Galbatorix initiated the fall. What then, could we do with over three times that at least? Give it up. The moment we arrive, you are dead." Orrin frowned at the problem. It was a flaw in his reasoning; though he would still destroy the resistance from Jormundur with ease, the power the Riders had could possibly lift Ilirea and deposit it on top of Orrin's entire army the moment he did so. Though he would not surrender, if only because he wanted the satisfaction of seeing Jormundur and Roran dead at his feet, and possibly one of those accursed dragons with the Dauthdaert, which even they would not be able to block. He would not go down without a fight. Every single one of his magicians would enchant javelins and arrows as well, after the battle against Jormundur's forces, increasing the chance of death for one of the dragons, or the Riders, and if one of them died then the partner of that one would go mad, the mate of that one would go mad, and therefore the remaining one's partner and mate would have gone mad as well, making the last one go mad as well, and they would all probably try something rash, stupid or impossible, like raising the dead, or just attack at random, using too much energy or exposing a weakness to then be exploited by the Riders and dragons. Though the plan did involve a bit of luck required to kill one of them, hitting one of four targets would be all they needed to do. It wouldn't be too hard. And if they hit more than one, increased advantage for them. Confident with his new plan, hastily devised though it was, Orrin spoke again.

"How about I announce it to the elves, then, Your Majesties? But about the Eldunari, I can deal with that when you arrive, after I deal with your friends, with ease, don't you get hopeful about that. The problem has been seen and avoided. Giving it up is not something I ever intend to do. Indeed, it is you who should be giving up, for I have the manpower to utterly eliminate any resistance the humans can create immediately, and they are the only ones capable of fighting me out of all the races! All the humans shall be under my banner, and I shall be the sole King!" Eragon again burst into the discussion, spite for Orrin in his voice.

"We'd guessed what your ambitions were already, thanks. And the elves would take any announcement from a traitor like you as mere rumour-mongering and an attempt to spread lies and dissent among the elves, and therefore believe nothing that comes out of your mouth that isn't in the Ancient Language, which you do not speak. And we have the energy to fly straight from here to there non-stop and still fight you to the best of our abilities, so barring any delays we may get there on time."

"Non-stop? Even with the speed of the fastest dragon you would be late. You have no hope of arriving before the last soldier is killed, and you know it. The only reason you rush so is to create the impression of trying to do something, and do not try to deny that fact. You try to show the people that you care, and you do so by embarking on a journey that looks good, a charge to save a broken Empire, a heroic, last chance dash to rescue your friends and allies from a dark king. Is that how you think of this? A cliché rescue mission? You are attempting to give a good impression of the Riders to the people of Alagaesia, and that is the only use that your trip will bring at best. At worst, you will merely show how little you can do to fight me, how fruitless an endeavour it is, and the true lack of power that the Riders possess. If you had summoned all the Riders to Ilirea, you might have saved yourselves this embarrassment. As it is, you merely weaken yourselves and leave your allies out of the equation. You might have saved Ilirea once and for all. But congratulations, you chose to revel in your own self-assurance and power, to have the confidence in your own abilities to challenge a country by yourselves rather than call for reinforcements. Your arrogance and greed for recognition blinded you to the unwise truth of your actions, forcing you to decline the help needed to do what was necessary. For those so apparently wise, your logic is astoundingly lacking in any sort of basic intelligence." Orrin ended his speech haughtily, with his chin up, trying to look down at them, though even in the mirror it didn't work too well, and he could tell. They were both taller than him-Eragon had obviously grown since Orrin had last seen him, and Arya had always been taller than most. He dropped the chin and folded his arms instead as Eragon began to speak.

"Believe me, Orrin, I had adequate reasons of my own to keep the young Riders out of the conflict, reasons that I am sure you would not begin to understand, so I ask you to refrain from questioning my motives and morals as such." Did Orrin not comprehend the horrors of battle, the terrors and the fears, that surely none of such a tender age should have to go through, and would surely not escape from unscathed? Though he had when younger than some of the Riders, such as Dusan and Aruk, it was something which he would wish upon no other when still so young, and it pained him to know that Taiven was doing so against her will. She was a good and fun student to be around, and deserved nothing of the sort that she was surely enduring now.

The King opposite him in the mirror was one of the most powerful and twisted individuals that he had ever come across. Very few would have had half the strength necessary to take the capital, let alone to conquer two other cities beforehand, and possibly even fewer would be twisted enough to send their own fifteen-year-old niece into a battlefield to kill a much-respected Queen, though Orrin did not know that he knew what had happened. Possibly only Galbatorix surpassed him in that.

"But when your morals are so questionable, why not? For I see few reasons."

"And your lack of understanding is why your morals are questionable, even more so than you claim mine are, for I would never dream of sending inexperienced, naive young Riders into battle, yet you claim I should! You seek to disrupt the peace of a nation for your own selfish gains! You claim you have been wronged as justification for your actions, or so I presume, yet you wrong many more by robbing them of life with your thoughtless slaughtering! You are the most hypocritical little idiot I have ever met! Now end this spell and be gone with you!"

"Tut tut, Eragon, if you are to be King then you must learn to be polite in delicate political situations such as this. Hastiness gets you nowhere, and as you can see, I have not been hasty in my plans. Each move is well thought out, each attack pre-determined, and this political masterstroke is the last act before the showdown, isolating the competitors when one has the obvious advantage over the other, resulting in a decisive victory for me. Each strategy fell into perfect place, resulting in my now inevitable victory. There is nothing you can do-all your actions are heat-of-the-moment choices compared to mine, which were thought out over the course of five years of hard work."

_Little one, maybe you should heed his words on politeness. This is only making him look good and you look bad in comparison. Though the betrayer-liar-Surda-King is worthy of being crushed under my claws and burnt in the shrivelling-hot-fire-from-my-maw, telling him so will get us nowhere. Listen, and answer as you think you should as Lead Rider._ Saphira's words were correct, Eragon realised; hurried arguments and insults were ineffective and would do little to help them and only give Orrin greater strength to his points and taunts as they came. He took a breath before replying.

"I have no ambition of becoming King of anything, as I believe I proved when I denied the possibility of the human Throne after the death of Galbatorix, and I am the lead Rider anyway, which is enough of a responsibility for me. Each move of yours is well thought out and planned, you say? One could argue that they are simply the result of a combination of luck and the skill of others. Belatona was unprepared. Some mysterious force opened Dras-Leona's gate and killed fifty men, ten Nighthawks and the Queen within the keep. And at Ilirea, according to one magician who got a message out, your advances were halted several times and would not have advanced further without assistance from one of your generals, when you had presumed that they would advance on their own with no trouble. You had overestimated your own forces; is it not possible that you have done so again? All of these are examples of you relying on luck and others for the advancement of your forces, which clearly shows that your plans, developed over five years, are still not without their flaws and have been opportunistic at best throughout. What is stopping the fact that this time, luck may well fail you, even as your general did?"

_Now that was more elegant, little one!_ Saphira said with pride, as Orrin thought for a few seconds to formulate a reply to the challenge. He appeared surprised at Eragon's reply, probably he had been expecting something different.

"Those examples that you gave hold little sway. Belatona was meant to be surprised-"

"Which does not mean it could not have fought better-"

"Generals are supposed to help the troops, as happened in Ilirea-"

"But you thought it would not be needed-"

"And as for Dras-Leona, you do not know what force helped me."

_Should we let him know that we know about Murtagh and Taiven?_ Eragon projected his question to Arya, Saphira, and Firnen at the same time, wondering if the knowledge gave them any advantage. Firnen's deep voice boomed through his mind.

_We might as well, Eragon. The only difference it makes is that he knows he loses the advantage of surprise, and therefore is less likely to attempt a surprise trap of some kind. We retain our surprise advantage, unwilling though we are to have it-Dusan and Laenar-and they lose the impression of having theirs. This will lessen their confidence, and keep our own high._

_I agree with Firnen, so his words shall speak for me too._

_The logic of any dragon is similar to that of any other, and I likewise agree with my mate._

_As do I, so the decision is made._ Eragon withdrew from the contact with Arya and Firnen, though as ever he retained his bond with Saphira.

"You presume us ignorant, Orrin? For shame, for we know far more than you guess. Murtagh and Taiven are your unwilling allies, as are their dragons. It was they who killed Nasuada and opened the gates at Dras-Leona. And it was entirely lucky that they came under your control as well, through the magician who knew the True Names of Murtagh and Thorn, and through Miremel's and Taiven's slip up. A great deal of fortune came your way, without which you would be in a much worse position than you are now, and that you cannot deny."

Orrin appeared to choke on his tongue for a second, then he said, "And unless a great deal of fortune comes your way, you shall fall before me! The past is the past, and I require no luck to deal with you now. Even now, my forces are preparing to battle those of Jormundur, and victory shall come to us!" Eragon shook his head, but it was Arya who spoke.

"I have to disagree. Skill, power, and intelligence, luck aside, shall win the day. And like it or not, we have the energy and wisdom of over three hundred dragons with us, and are the two most skilful dragon and Rider pairs that there are. It is you who have need of luck, not us."

"Numbers can overwhelm even the most skilful. Relentless pounding would destroy anything. Defences constructed by the intelligent shall hold against the same intelligences. My advantage over you remains. You are leagues away from Ilirea as it is, and getting no closer."

"Exactly, so this conversation ends here. We have need of speed, and you are merely delaying us further. Fare very, very, badly Orrin, so we can defeat you all the quicker."

Eragon sent Orrin a cold gaze, as did Arya. He saw Saphira snort a small flicker of flame in Orrin's direction, saying, _Cowardly little rat-faced traitor!_ Firnen did likewise, with similar words, a few seconds later, the image in the mirror vanishing immediately afterwards, arms folded and a smirk on his face.

Arya spoke the words of the scrying spell in order to contact Lord Dathedr again. This time, the lord was standing, beginning to walk away from the same table he had been sitting at before. He must have heard one of the dragons flapping behind them, for he turned and looked at them, little surprise on his face. "Greetings, Your Majesty, Eragon. Why have you scried me again?"

Eragon watched as Arya spoke. "A situation has arisen, requiring immediate orders. You are to withdraw all troops from Osilon, and to have them to return to their homes. We as a race are unable to fight Orrin." The lord appeared shocked at the statement.

"But do we not owe our support to Jormundur, as the King-to-be of the Empire? And do we not find it in our duties to fight against the forces that attacked our allies?"

"Technically, we swore our support to the High Queen of the Empire, and all who come after her. And Orrin is unchallenged in Ilirea as the High King, a self-proclaimed title, but a title nonetheless. Lawfully, we cannot attack him, as he has inherited that role. And that inheritance invalidates his previous actions. We shall have to withdraw our troops and hope that the best comes at Ilirea, though as Riders and dragons I, Eragon, Firnen, and Saphira are allowed to help, acting as a force independent to all rulers."

_And chopping off a few heads while we're at it!_ Eragon's mouth twitched upwards at the sides for a split second at Saphira's comment.

"This again shall endanger your position. The Lords and Ladies do not approve of wasted time, effort, and concern, and this shall weaken their confidence in you further. In addition, the fact that you did not notice this problem beforehand is likely to make them deem you incompetent and forgetful." Arya's eyes narrowed.

"They knew of the wording of the vows. They knew the limitations they posed. However, not one of them noticed this before I did! There are many who did not realise, and responsibility should not be passed on to me for their errors are present as well as mine! It is a great surprise to hear that they would blame me for their own failures."

"As you are Queen, your responsibilities are greater than theirs, and you are expected to be the one to notice these things yourself. Though it may not appear totally fair, that is the way things have ever been. People are inclined to blame those above themselves, and those above blame those below. This, none can change."

"Be that as it may, I must now take my leave. We have far to go and much to do." Dathedr bowed to her, and she released the spell and headed for the stairs again, jumping down the first step. Eragon looked at the dragons as they flapped away from the window they had been peering through, laughing as Firnen accidentally nearly crashed into the wall in an attempt to avoid Saphira's wing.

He ran down the stairs, reaching the courtyard quickly and stopping just behind Arya as Firnen came down to pick them up. _I think I should take both of you up, due to Saphira's terrible landings._ A roar came from the skies, Eragon receiving feelings of annoyance from Saphira, but Firnen just grinned, exposing his sharp teeth, and waited for them to mount up. Arya leapt onto the saddle, via Firnen's front leg, and Eragon followed her and wrapped his hands around her waist as she strapped herself in. She smiled slightly as he rested his head on her shoulder, and Firnen took off. He flapped hard, rising upwards, and they reached the skies quickly. Saphira was hovering about two hundred feet above them, and she roared again, going into a small dive at Firnen.

_My landings are perfect! I'm just bigger than you!_ She snapped playfully at his head, and he arched his neck and spun upside-down, forcing Eragon to grip on harder with his knees and tighten his hold on Arya as the world turned itself on its head and he almost fell. Saphira brought herself to a halt with a single, powerful beat of her wings and avoided a swipe of the claws from Firnen at the same time. Corkscrewing away, her tail-the spikeless side-whacked Firnen under the chin as he righted himself, and he launched himself after her quickly, but with all her corkscrewing it was hard to track where she was headed, and she did a small loop as he closed in and shot underneath him. Eragon laughed and, on the spur of the moment, launched himself off Firnen and into the air. Arya gasped in shock, Saphira and Firnen both didn't notice, and Eragon extended his arms to steady and slow himself before landing perfectly on Saphira's saddle.

She roared in surprise at the extra weight on her back, twisting her head to look at him, and Firnen started laughing the strange, rasping laugh of dragons at the look on her face and the shock in her mind. Eragon laughed too, as did Arya after a moment, and Saphira glanced around at the lot of them, snorting. Both dragons had stopped, so Saphira said, _Come on then! Speed up,_ and soared off in the direction of Ilirea, turning to the journey again. Eragon could tell she was attempting to hide her embarrassment at the laughter and distract them, and so, he guessed, could the others, but the tactic worked. His mind returned to the doubts and fears of war and battles, he again began to wonder what would become of everything he knew and loved in the not so far off future that they would have to face. He feared for them, not for himself, and that fear rose within him as he rode south towards the capital.

_You shall not lose us, little one, and we shall not lose you. Of that I am sure._

_Thank you, Saphira._


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47: Many Worried People.**

Roran stood at the edge of the camp, gazing out towards Ilirea. The city, shrouded in darkness, was eerily similar to what it looked like under Galbatorix's reign; foreboding, impenetrable, the citadel of a great evil. Though he knew of the gap in the defences, the broken gate, it was at an angle to them, or on the other side, or the city was just too dark on a whole, but whatever the reason, he could not see it. Though he was aware of it, the city looked as solid and impeding as ever.

He was on the edge of a hastily piled, low, barrier made of earth that had a few stakes placed around it at random intervals. A few metres ahead of him, the ground fell away into a ditch before continuing a flat plain. Similar barriers lined the sides of the camp, but the stakes were more highly concentrated there. It had been Angela's suggestion to place the majority around the sides, to prevent a flanking manoeuvre, or to reduce its success, and Roran himself had posed the idea of keeping the cavalry separate from the rest of the force so that a charge would be more effective if the infantry were engaged, and to prevent the enemy from quickly destroying them when they were stationary. He himself would be fighting with the cavalry, atop Snowfire, but he had separated from their camp to both talk to Katrina through scrying and to plan for the battle. He had spoken with Katrina, and he was assessing the state of the defences and the defences of the enemy. Though the defences of the enemy appeared secure, strong, and confident, the sentries alongside Roran appeared alarmingly jumpy and nervous. While he guessed that that meant they would be on the alert quicker, it also meant a lowered confidence level and that they would possibly sound false alarms if surprised by a creature of the night or something similar. He would have liked to do something about it, but did not have the time. He needed to speak to the leaders.

He turned on his heels and strode between two lines of tents, glancing from side to side as he did so. Men were sitting outside them, talking, and he could see some of the faces within the tents as well. With very few exceptions, fear was present in their eyes, frowns were on their faces, and their weapons were close to hand. So near to their target, many of the inexperienced and experienced alike doubted themselves and their allies. Their concerns were evident-that they would die, they would lose their friends-and honestly Roran felt much the same. He feared for his family, Katrina and Ismira, most of all, and what would become of them with his death. Orrin's rule, most likely-prosecution for being close to him, loss of their hard-earned land-sadness and grief at the loss of him, and possibly being forced to flee from the Surdan forces if they advanced towards a defenceless Carvahall. All the men of the town, no longer a village, as more people had moved in, had come with Roran to assist in the fighting, which both assisted Jormundur and left the women and children defenceless if they failed. They had all taken that risk, saying that they were confident in their victory. He had believed them, at the time.

However, looking around, he couldn't believe they were that confident. All he could see around him were many worried faces, and morale overall seemed low. He turned left, heading deeper into the maze of tents, towards the central command tent. Yet more apprehensive looks met him, and it was the same throughout his journey as he made his way through the camp.

The Nighthawks challenged him as he approached the now very familiar red pavilion. The current shift was led by a man who had been a soldier in Roran's old force during the war. Pirnus was his name, his sword was a large longsword that he kept his hands on at all times, and his longish hazel hair was flapping about in the wind like the flag that rose upwards from the tent behind him, majestic in the sunlight. The flag, not the hair.

The flag was neither that of the former Empire under Galbatorix, nor the flag of the Broddring Kingdom, nor was it even the flag of the Varden. Rather, it was an adaption of the latter; instead of a white dragon pointing a sword down at a purple field, the dragon had alighted upon the field, which was now a royal golden colour, and was holding the sword up towards the sky, in a pose of victory, but also ready to fight and stab. The sky was now purple instead, the dragon warding away the return of the Empire and the destruction to the continent. Roran thought the flag itself was good, but he would have preferred it to include something representing the common people. The dragon as the Riders and the field as the royalty and the country on a whole was good, but what about the people who kept the country going? Surely they deserved some mention? Even just the odd ant scurrying around on the field would be a fair enough representation to the little people that worked hard all the time, though it would not look too great on a flag.

Maybe a little bee flying around would also be good representation-bees worked hard, looked better than ants, and could sting those who threatened them, as Roran and the other men could certainly do quite well. Bees defended their queen, and produced nectar, which, apparently, some people attempted to harvest and made into a sweet substance that they could sell, though it was uncommon, and Roran had only recently heard of it. Maybe he should speak to Jormundur about possible additions to the symbol of the Kingdom. Though maybe waiting for a more convenient time would be better. He was going to an important discussion. Talking about bees on flags would be extremely unprofessional.

"State your name and your business!" Pirnus challenged Roran, drawing his sword a little but out of his scabbard. Roran grinned a bit, as did Pirnus. They knew each other and had fought together, yet they still had to go through the questions and answers.

"Roran Stronghammer, requesting an audience with King Jormundur." Pirnus nodded, relaying the message and letting Roran in on command. The Nighthawks around him appeared focused and disciplined, and Roran could tell that they wanted to impress, as they had only just been recruited from the ranks of the army's soldiers and magicians, yet also slightly nervous. Many of their most experienced members had died-only three of the original guards of Nausada lived on. Captain Garven had reportedly been killed in Ilirea, and many more had been lost across the Empire. Understandably, they were worried. The entire camp was afraid of what was to come, it seemed. Fear was inescapable to all. They faced a great foe.

Inside the pavilion, Jormundur sat at a table, pouring over a map. The elven Rider, Dusan, stood to the side, also looking at the map of Ilirea that was spread on top of the map of the entirety of Alagaesia that covered the surface of the wood. The herbalist, Angela, the mad rabbit woman, and the two werecats, Solembum and Yelloweyes, were there as well, though Solembum was concentrating on washing his paws rather than making plans of any type. All but he looked up at Roran's entrance.

"Ah, Stronghammer. What is your opinion on our position?" The King-to-be greeted him.

"Precarious at best. The men are jumpy, nervous. They gaze towards the city with foreboding and fear in their eyes. At an attack, they shall panic. Without some form of encouragement, their morale shall be greatly lowered. Though our defences shall hold well enough, the defenders are a different matter. And even with high morale overcoming such a foe without support shall be a great challenge. We need reinforcements from the other races dearly. Without them, Eragon, and Arya, we shall be hard pressed to survive."

"Do not discount the fact that you do have a Rider and dragon at your command, Roran." The calm voice of Dusan rang through the tent. "With only one on the side of the Varden Galbatorix was overthrown." Roran's temper rose, his frustration with the whole situation being the main cause.

"Do not lecture me on the war like I am ignorant of what happened! I was there! I survived! I-"

"Stop quarrelling like a new brood of freshly hatched Nidhwal and talk about how we can overcome the darkness that has crept over Ilirea like a burrow grub creeps under skin, and wipe away the slime it has excreted like the trail of a Snagli. Now I would appreciate it if you kept quiet about such inconsequential matters as your own pride and let me think of how I can slip Sundavrblaka into the conversation." It could only have been Angela who had spoken. The amount of words he didn't know and obscure references were the sort of thing that only she would know and say in such a situation.

"Angela, what are these burrow grubs, Snagli, and Sundavrblaka of which you speak?" Even the elven Rider appeared surprised, as was revealed when he spoke.

"Not to mention... What was it? Nidhwal?" Roran added. The witch just laughed.

"Beetles of torture, giant snails, birds of shadow, and sea serpents respectively, inhabiting areas in and around Vroengard island. Did you get that?" She had blurted it all out so fast that Roran barely caught any of it, though Dusan appeared to hear it all perfectly well. Elven hearing, most likely, was the reason.

"Anyway, I want to figure out where they will attack if they do, and where we should counter-attack. Also, working out a plan of action of our own might be a good idea. Leaving the enemy to make the decisions on when and where to fight is folly and should be avoided. So all of you, come here and help make the decisions, and that's an order!" Jormundur pointed to the map, looking around at the lot of them, and Roran marched over to the table, Angela following, while Dusan merely took a step closer to the group, not really joining it. Laenar, his dragon, was absent, hiding off to the west to avoid the sight of Orrin's men or magicians.

"Now, if you were planning Orrin's attack, looking at our positions, what would you do?" Roran leant over, seeing the borders of the camp and the walls of Ilirea outlined on the paper. Their camp was in a quite thin line, pointing in the direction they had been marching-towards the city. He would normally have presumed that the sides would be the weakest points, if he had not seen the defences for himself.

"Personally, I would attack from both sides and from the front. The flanking movements from the side attack would split our forces and the frontal attack could press forwards, surrounding the other group and eliminating it with relative ease. The side attacks could split apart, one attacking the group nearest to the city, one assaulting the remainder. After the first group is defeated the soldiers there move onwards to assist those moving towards the remainder of the troops, resulting in a easy victory." There were a few nods around the tent as he spoke the words.

_A good plan, though they could very easily just assault from the front and push all the way through our lines. A more foolproof and simple arrangement too._ Solembum had paused in his grooming and spoken for the first time, but he contributed no more than that and went back to meticulously licking his bushy tail.

"If they do so it would be costly to them. An all-out frontal attack would allow all our soldiers to simply charge forwards at them, spreading little confusion despite the crowded circumstances and providing us with a strong forwards movement, letting us gain momentum. Although, they presume we shall more heavily guard the front of the camp, and therefore are going to find it logical to assault out position from different directions as well. Roran's theory as to how they shall attack is more likely. So," Jormundur said, drawing three arrows on the Ilirea map-two coming in from the sides, one moving in head-on- "What should we do to counter it?" Dusan, the elf, leant in and spoke up in reply to the King-to-be.

"Thanks to Angela and the barriers at the sides, their attacks from the side shall be slowed drastically, if only for a short while. We should capitalise on their momentary weakness while we can. Cavalry pressing them from behind would give us the advantage, and if they attack with theirs eliminate a vast number of their troops, though possibly we have too few cavalry to assault the Surdans from both sides of the camp. Destroying one would allow our horsemen to either move in through the tents and confront the other group or to assist the fighting at the front if it goes badly and leave the soldiers in the camp to dispose of the other group, or at least hold them up."

He's right. We don't have adequate horsemen to flank on both sides and expect to win, especially if Orrin's army is as large as they say. Roran realised something else as well, and quickly voiced it.

"How would the cavalry know when the Surdans' moment of shock and loss of momentum upon reaching the stake line had happened, or even if they were attacking? We cannot just guess roughly when they plan to attack and go from there. Cavalry require time to put saddles on, arm ourselves, out on our armour, and we cannot just do so at a moment's notice! We need a warning as to when the enemies are coming, or relying on us for anything is pointless." A few glances were shot around the tent, but no answers were given, until Solembum glanced up nonchalantly.

_I believe I can answer your problem and solve it, Roran._ With that remark, spoken to all in the tent, the werecat padded towards the Nighthawks, as if to go out.

_Where are you going? Can you explain it to me?_ The werecat, in his animal form, paused and turned his head, staring at Roran with eyes that shifted from warm orange to cold ice-blue as he spoke.

_I go to hunt, because I am hungry. I believe that answers your questions. _With that, Solembum exited Roran's mind and the tent, both making Roran unable to mentally scream that _That wasn't what he meant _and to _Come back and explain properly,_ and causing the rather comical scene of Pirnus jumping a foot in the air when he felt a tail brush his leg.

With the werecat's absence, Roran glanced around the pavilion to see that most of those around him were looking at him. He shrugged, awkwardly.

"I guess I'll have to trust him." Jormundur nodded.

"It appears so."

"And why wouldn't you trust him? He is on your side, you know. If you can't trust your own allies, you can't trust anyone and he might disembowel you out of mere suspicion." The sharp-eyed fortune-teller's words were serious. Roran gulped.

"Would he really do that?"

"Of course not! Unlike you, he trusts his friends!" Roran closed his eyes in frustration. This was getting nowhere.

"Is there nothing about which you have nothing to say?"

"Of course not! That would be boring."

"Look, back on topic please. We were discussing ways to defend the camp. Angela, if you would refrain from commenting on things that would just distract us, and especially Roran, it seems, from actually having a meeting here, I think it would help. Now, let us work with the assumption that Solembum will alert our men and go from there. The cavalry will go around onto our right flank and charge in towards the Surdans as they meet the stakes. After eliminating them, however, what do they do?" Yet again, the King-to-be had restored the path of the conversation.

"If we manage to kill them, I think we should move through the camp to try to fight the other group. With the strength of Orrin's forces we might not even beat one of the groups with the advantage of surprise. I wouldn't be surprised if it left me with only a hundred or probably less men after dealing with them. With that few, charging infantry would be folly, especially a large force such as that which shall be assaulting the front of the camp. Charging through thin lines of tents in small groups eliminates the advantage of numbers and reduces it to a contest of skill at fighting, which I am confident we can win. If we, along with the other soldiers, manage to defeat the other side group, or drive it back or to one side, we shall turn with our remaining forces and attempt to find and defend you, if we have to. We shall assist in the fighting in any way we can, though definite plans are hard to make when you may be all but wiped out. One thing is for sure, however. We shall not retreat, no matter how many we lose. We fight for the King until death." Murmurs of agreement and appreciation came from around the tent. Roran's determined attitude to the situation appeared to be rubbing off on the rest of them, though a nervous attitude still seemed to prevail in the command pavilion.

"I think we should make a decision on how we should use Dusan." Jormundur rested his hands on the table wearily, then glanced up at the Rider. "Sorry, use is the wrong word. How you should fight and where is what I meant to say." A small smile flickered on Dusan's face.

"I do not mind how you say it, the meaning was clear and it was well meant. I shall fight as you see fit, for at a guess all of you here have more experience of war than me." Roran was surprised that the elf had not made the decision himself; that was what the only elf he had previously known, Arya, would have done, but he realised that he shouldn't have judged every elf as the same. Arya, by all accounts, was not the same as the average elf. She was a queen for one thing, and she was a Rider, not to mention the fact that she was currently in love with the Lead Rider. Judging others by her standards was probably not the most logical idea.

"With the Varden, Eragon would generally fight on the ground with Saphira, attempting to detect and eliminate groups of enemy magicians and kill their defenceless soldiers. While that method does work to a great degree, I believe you would be most useful working in a similar way to Murtagh's at the Burning plains. There, he did not appear until late in the fight, and when he did he attacked Hrothgar from afar and then battled, and in fact beat, Eragon, though only due to the sheer exhaustion of the latter." Here Dusan appeared surprised that the Lead Rider had lost, then he nodded and Jormundur continued. "If you have the chance to attack Orrin, rise up from wherever you are and take that chance. If not, then fight one of their Riders, alone if you can, and it would be best if you fought Taiven rather than Murtagh. She is less experienced, slower than you, and you know how she fights. Adjusting to Murtagh's style and Thorn's strength, you would have a hard time fighting, though he would probably have less energy than you, having been fighting for longer. That should give you the advantage, for a while at least. Surprising either of them would be a good method; a hard, fast, and unexpected attack would give you the early advantage, and your stamina would give you the advantage later." Dusan seemed to accept Jormundur's plan, though he did pose a question.

"Laenar wonders as to whether we should use lethal force against either of them. They are unwilling slaves, though slaves nonetheless, and our companion Riders, who have undoubtedly suffered much under the King's power, and killing my friends, or those who quite possibly underwent more mental and physical torture than any others in the war against Galbatorix, would leave a permanent stain in my heart, and Laenar is displeased at the notion as well."

Jormundur seemed to consider it, a frown on his face, then he said, "Killing any dragon or Rider is unwise in the current situation, with so few in the world, so ideally you shall not have to, and you can leave their lives as they are and simply allow us ono the ground to kill their captor. However, this world is far from ideal. If you see an opportunity, strike. However, maybe if you did not kill, merely held sword, fang, or claw at their neck, you would be able to capture them, or injure them, as capturing one when the other is still around is impractical at best. So injuring either Rider or dragon, not fatally, but enough to immobilise, would be the most useful and practical course of action in the situation, for they shall certainly be holding nothing back, and in doing so you may save many lives. So do not rush to kill; if you have no choice, however, I see no alternative. It is the sad truth of war-those that you have to fight will die, even if they have no wish to fight or die, that or you will fight and die against your will. It is them against you, and you have to make sure that it is not you who falls."

A nod from the Rider was the only response.

"And what shall your own part be in this fight, my King? For your protection shall be a high concern of ours in any battle that is to come." Jormundur raised his eyebrows at Roran's remark.

"I shall fight and command, of course. I shall lead from the front, fighting along with my Nighthawks, teaching them to fear our wrath. If possible, I intend to dispose of Orrin myself. If he chooses to lead himself, he shall fall. And what shall be your part, Angela, Yelloweyes?" He addressed the only two whose roles were as yet undecided.

"Wherever the action is, of course! Where else?" The herbalist revealed no more, and the werecat simply flicked his tail in the direction of the front lines. And with that, the meeting was over.

Roran found Snowfire where he had left him, at the northern edge of the camp-the one furthest from Ilirea, and the one closest to the camp of the cavalry. He untied the horse from his post, put his foot in the stirrup, and swore when he tried to push himself up onto the saddle with it and the buckle was loose, causing him to smack his face on the hard leather when it gave and the stirrup was loosened. He buckled the strap back up properly, calmed the horse again, and got onto his back, swinging his leg over to the other side. The small, makeshift gate was opened for him, and he rode out upon his white steed.

The wind ruffled his short hair as he rode, fast, towards where he had chosen for the cavalry to make camp. The ground was dry and dusty, rising in clouds behind him under the horse's hooves. Roran was greeted in a friendly manner by the guard at the gate, his old friend from Carvahall, Mandel. He smiled as he passed the young man, who had moved on from his ways of gambling and throwing knives which he had picked up on the barges from Narda a long time ago, and had never turned back. He was a good person, one of Roran's friends.

He then rode to the area of the encampment where both his tent and the tents of the other people from Carvahall were situated. Tethering Snowfire to the post he had stuck into the ground outside his tent, he dismounted the horse and strode over to where twenty or so men were sat around in a circle of tents. Horst spotted him, and called out loudly, attracting the attention of the rest of the group. He sat down heavily between Baldor, one of Horst's two sons, and Frewin, the man who had been one of the sailors on the barges that he had commandeered from Narda and had fallen in love with Odele, one of the girls from the village. They had finally been allowed to marry, albiet grudgingly, by her parents four years ago, and he was now fully accepted into the village community. Roran himself had performed the ceremony, much as Eragon had done for him. Frewin's three-year-old son, Srent, was a good friend of Ismira's.

"So, Stronghammer, what orders from the rest of the mighty leaders? Enlighten us." Horst's deep voice silenced the majority of the conversation, both within the group and in a few others around it. Roran could sense that the surrounding men were anxious to hear any news about their futures that they could. He didn't blame them; before any battle, worry set in. This was no different.

"We wait. For either Orrin to attack or Eragon to arrive. We stay fully prepared for all that time, ready to assemble and charge any moment, even at night. Especially at night. When either reinforcements arrive or Riders, we take the initiative ourselves and attack Ilirea." The odd murmur broke out across the area, and Roran knew that the news would spread fast. He didn't even need to make an official announcement to his men. The news would spread faster than the wind from the wings of a diving dragon.

"Not Ilirea, Roran. Uru'baen. It bears more resemblance to the dark city of the past than it does the fair and airy symbol of hope, glory, and rebirth that it was under Nausada." Nods passed around the group of men, and Roran grunted in agreement.

"Aye. I remember when I myself went on a small trip down to the capital a year ago. The people were laughing, the merchants were selling, the sun was shining; and now look at it. It's a crying shame." Frewin gestured to the dark silhouette to the south. He had taken up the position of a merchant in Carvahall, and as such he was often needed to travel to other cities. Though it was merely a small town now, it was much more prosperous, many people from other cities choosing to move there for a chance at making some money and maybe even meeting the legendary Earl and Lord of Palancar valley, Roran Stronghammer. He was, it seemed an attraction to people. With the development of the settlement, now rebuilt and in fact expanding at a rather alarming rate, the position of merchant had been left both vacant and necessary, and Frewin had jumped at the opportunity for a business. After receiving some coaching from Jeod on the methods and records, and being taught to read, he had started trading, travelling, and earning. He had become a good friend to many in his time in the town.

"Aye. I only hope we receive help before we get attacked." Roran spoke in a low voice, glancing around at the surrounding men warily. Though news travelling fast was sometimes a good thing, he did not want any other than his old friends to know of his worries. Dissent and even greater fear would spread faster than it would if he told them that the elves were out to kill them and they were in Uru'baen as well. They held him in too high esteem, though he trusted the men of Carvahall more than the rest. Not that he didn't trust the rest, but... He shared a close bond of comradeship with his friends, one of a great amount of trust.

"If I can bend iron as I used to, and you can pull one of your usual miracles on us, we should be fine, whatever happens." Roran nodded gratefully at the blacksmith, but Albreich, Horst's other son, interrupted before he could reply.

"Personally, I am unsure that we can rely on the former of those occurrences. Father has been using on Baldor and I more and more often recently, though he maintains that he can still do it himself." Horst growled good-naturedly as the circle of people laughed, glaring at his son in mock anger.

"Seeing as you haven't a wife to help out like I have your mother, you have more than enough time to pull your weight back at the forge, as does your brother. Just because I'm lifting the main support beam in the house up again and wedging it into place does not mean I'm weaker than you all of a sudden."

"You lifted the main support beam?"

"I'll lift you if you don't shut up!" Both father and son were grinning now, a playful, jesting mood coming across the group as a few laughed at the conversation, others simply smiling as the argument developed further, each saying that the other could never lift them, and that they could lift the other. Roran himself released a great boom of laughter at a particularly witty remark from Horst. However, before Roran got the chance to see more, Fiark, his magician, rushed up to him with the information that Eragon wanted to talk with him urgently. Reluctantly, Roran followed him away from the group as sounds of people jostling each other erupted behind him, along with noises of merriment.

Roran returned to the gathering with dark news, and a heavy heart. Though a grin flashed across his face at the sight of Horst sitting on Albreich, both covered in dust, and Albreich unable to escape, his news was sinister enough to stop the expression within a second of its arrival, and his expression was serious enough to make every single villager stop chuckling the moment he saw it. Finally, only Albreich had not noticed Roran's presence. He continued to thrash about, before noticing the stares of all the other people and attempting to crane his neck around enough to see what they were looking at. Horst let him up, and they both sat down again, staring at Roran with the rest of them. Roran waked forwards into almost the exact centre of the circle, and said in a quiet voice, the least hopeful news of the war so far.

"We will receive no support from the other races, only from Eragon and Arya."


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter 48: In the Other Camp.

Orrin's personal guard had yet to come up with a good enough name for themselves. They had thought of one, which literally translated into 'Warders.' It was a good name for a group protecting the King, but it was already taken. 'Warders' in the ancient language was 'Varden.' Orrin had instantly refused the proposed name and given them a good lecture on common sense.

"Do you really think," he had said, "do you really think that I want to be guarded by a group named after the predecessors of my enemies? Those who declined me my right to power over Alagaesia? Traitors to me, their former ally? Is that what I want associated with any guard of mine? Do you think so? Well, let me tell you, the lot of you, you have no idea what common sense is. You may have heard of it. You may think you have an inkling of it within you. But if you walk up to me and call yourselves the Varden, then it must simply flee from you like a rabbit from a wolf. That, or it just does its best to stay away from Hugran, and the rest of you are similarly affected. I know not which it is, though knowing the intelligence level of the average man nowadays it is likely both. Run away like common sense from yourselves and come back with a better suggestion than the Varden this time!" They had backed out of the room, muttering, and he had slammed the door behind them.

Needless to say, they had not yet returned to him with another possibility.

Fools.

They trailed behind him as he strode the streets of the city. Bloodstains soaked the ground in several places, but it did little in the way of impeding movement, so those cleaning the city had chosen to leave it there for the time being. Citizens gazed out at him from doorways and windows, some glaring, others visibly struggling to keep their tempers in check. He was in control, though; there was nothing they could do. For all their hatred and anger, they were unable to touch their conqueror as he walked the streets that they lived on, head held high, men at his back, near, but yet too far to strike. He did not pity their helplessness, as he gloated over it. He thrived on the superior feeling it gave him. He was better than them, and both sides knew it.

The 'Varden' were muttering amongst themselves, though they still marched behind Orrin in a military formation: a cube, four men wide and three deep, Hugran at the head of the group, the King himself a few paces ahead. They had uniforms on, the formal and battle wear of Rakr Sverd. Only Zimar had not worn it in fighting, claiming it too cumbersome.

Dark leather clothes were worn under the plate metal, reducing the pressure on the skin. The many plates of the armour itself were a dull grey, painted over to avoid reflective problems. The custom-made sword, though they all followed the same basic guideline, slid through a gap in the metal, rather than hanging off a loose, weak leather belt that could easily become lost or broken. It was an innovation unique to Orrin's magician corps. The helmet was of the usual standard, a metal cap, though a red band wrapped around it symbolised their importance and rank. Their boots had small little spikes on the end, a sneaky little way to surprise an enemy in an attack they would not think to block, and likely not even notice.

Orrin himself wore the Crown of Nasuada, the symbol of the people's leader, now in the possession of their enemy. It was symbolic, in a way. He had taken their city, their throne, their hope, many of their livelihoods, and he showed that all off with that which was once worn by their greatest leader.

The usual orange-and-black cloak swung from his shoulders. He wore a blood-red shirt and dark trousers, deep brown leather shoes clicking against the pavement. He had pulled back the concealing mechanism on the belt, revealing twelve glimmering diamonds for all to see. The light from the high, midday sun reflected of the many facets of the diamonds, sending flecks of light flickering in multi-coloured spots around the entire street, and one kept flashing light into his left eye every time he stepped forwards with his right leg. He tried taking smaller steps with that leg, but it just made him feel like a cripple and an invalid, not to mention the fact that the light kept doing it anyway, so he stopped. After a few attempts at walking with a different gait, he was forced to accept the fact that either it would hinder his eyesight every other step or he would walk like an idiot, so he abandoned the task, instead pulling the black strip over it and another one, so that the belt only revealed ten of the twelve diamonds. It made the belt look as if it was on at the wrong angle, so he twisted it to the side to make the diamonds look more centred.

Another diamond flashed light into his eyes.

Sighing, he pulled the black strip across, concealing the remaining ten diamonds. They had been impressive, but everyone was staring anyway. What more of an effect could he produce? The glares were being shot at him with as much venom as ever as he paced the streets. The people of the city quailed under his gaze, for the most part, though there was the odd man or woman who would stare angrily at them even if he made full eye contact with them. One man was clutching a dagger to his chest, leaning in a doorway, and he walked further into the street as Orrin advanced, though not near enough to block his way. Orrin's hand slipped down to his sword, keeping a grip on the pommel. He had not slipped out of practice in his years on the throne, as the man would find if he attempted anything. The man moved closer to his house upon seeing the sword, but he glared as hard as ever, actually calling out to the King.

"Hey, coward! Going for your sword? What's the matter; scared I'll set the cat-men on you?" With that, the man grabbed an alley cat from where it rested in the gutter, waving it in the direction of the Surdans. Laughs broke out from all sides, and Orrin growled. The incident with the cat-men was quickly becoming infamous. He advanced upon the man, who glanced around fearfully; looking at Orrin's drawn sword, then seemed to make a decision and threw the cat at Orrin's face.

Orrin's blade smacked the side of the creature in mid-air, drawing blood and covering its flank in red.

It wailed pitifully as it fell to the floor, practically dead already. Orrin ignored it and deftly smacked the dagger from the man's hands, as he had drawn it again. The tip of Orrin's weapon rested at the man's throat, and he spoke to the man, now practically as white as a sheet.

"Why do such a thing? Surely even an imbecile such as you should be able to tell that that is not a good idea. So then, why? Answer quickly, or I might decide to kill you more painfully than strictly necessary." The man's mouth opened, and he stuttered as he started to talk, before cutting himself short and standing taller, defiantly. Orrin disliked the change in demeanour. It made it look like the man could stand up to him. He considered plunging the blade in now just to end it, but stopped as the man spoke, this time, steadily and without pause.

"You killed the Queen. My friend, who was a good and loyal man in the army, was cut down just around the corner from here. And my wife... Your men took her and hit her and raped her before sending her back to me bleeding and covered in a white sheet that was stained dark red with her blood, all over it. It's the same blood which covers your red shirt now, isn't it; your fancy clothes brought with the blood of thousands of loyal men, slaughtered on your command so that you can wear that crown and walk these streets as if they were your own. I hate it, I hate you, and I would give up my own life to spit in your face and call you an idiot like this rather than see you looking around at my home like you own the place and controlling everyone here, and I know others feel the same. Get out of here or get killed. No one wants you here." With that, the man spat in Orrin's face and grinned. "You can't say I didn't warn you, you idiot." Orrin grinned back in response.

"And I hate defiant louts who aren't grateful that their wives are alive at all. I hate people who attack me and insult me in public. And while I would not give up my life to put steel in your neck, I would certainly not regret it; I shall, in fact, derive pleasure from it, and I would much rather that than see you walking the street like you wanted to die, throwing cats at me and finding people sympathetic to a revolution." During the conversation, Orrin had slowly lowered his sword a bit, and the man had relaxed slightly. Suddenly, Orrin stepped forwards, sliding the blade through the ribcage, forwards into the man's lungs. Looking into the fearful eyes of the man about to die, Orrin whispered, "And you can't say I didn't warn you, dead man."

The man held on to life for enough time to say, "I never said she had survived. She bled to death right where we stand."

Orrin tilted his head, as if amused. "As will you. Quite poetic, no?" He released the corpse as the light vanished from its eyes, stepping back, and without a second glance, he turned. As he did so, he saw the alley cat, attempting to stand on three legs. It was a pitiful sight.

He lashed out a boot and connected with its ribcage soundly. There was a crack, and it hurtled backwards into a building. He strode along the street, barely breaking stride. This time, there were more hostile gazes, but all appeared more fearful. Orrin allowed himself a slight smirk; they had been frightened, and any possible dissent caused by the man's words had been crushed at the source. Nevertheless, the 'Varden' tightened their hands on their swords as they continued down the street. It would not do to become complacent.

"So, you are confident that this task will be complete by tomorrow morning and the magicians as ready to fight as possible?"

"Yes, my lord. The enchantments are tricky and exhausting, and we need other magicians on hand in case the energy the ones doing the spell have isn't enough to complete it. Therefore, at least two men are required to cast each, with another nearby. How many do you want us to make?"

"As many as possible. I've given you forty magicians for this task, so let's say eighteen at the least, twenty if you can. These enchanted javelins could win us this war."

"Yes, my lord."

"Then see to it." The man saluted, spun on his heels, and walked back to the group of men that were standing near a large group of ballistae on the city walls. Orrin had lost twenty-something magicians over the course of the campaign. With a hundred to start with, and twelve guarding Orrin, that left roughly sixty-five to fight with the common soldiers. The majority of them were here, casting enchantments on javelins to make them penetrate wards. The dragons and Riders would be the biggest threat, and he had found a way to deal with them quite easily. All they had to do was lure them close enough and fire. Then, one of them would probably die, and the rest would go mad as a result. His victory would then be assured.

As he watched, the men divided up into groups of two or three, probably decided by how strong the magicians were. The magicians in each group would then start chanting, casting the spell. A few collapsed, some started sweating, but none died, and the javelins were being enchanted. Orrin turned and walked back down the steps after a glance over at the Empire's camp. They had no idea what was coming for them!

Orrin stood outside the door to the cage of Murtagh and Thorn. Dragon eyes glared back at him, and there was no less anger on the face of the Rider sitting next to Thorn. Were they free, it would be intimidating indeed. As it was, they looked weak and overly defiant for people who couldn't get out.

"What do you want, Orrin?" Orrin hadn't been paying attention to who was speaking, choosing to look at their signs of pain instead, and, disconcertingly, the growl was so low and deep that it could have come from the dragon, though Thorn couldn't speak out loud, so Orrin spoke to Murtagh, presuming it was him by process of elimination.

"I would appreciate it if you were to address me as 'Your Majesty' or some other such title worthy of my rank as High King. I am here to give you your orders for the battle tomorrow. I-"

"Answer the question properly. Not 'why are you here?' What do you want?" Orrin glared down at the man, then spoke.

"I want power. I want to be respected. I want to rule my race and I want to cast down my enemies like the beasts they truly are! Then, I want to rule everything else that there is! The world shall be at my command!" Orrin finished the speech with an air of pride, looking down at the man who now sat cross-legged in front of him in the cage. A sneer was on his lips. But Murtagh barely responded. His only action was to raise an eyebrow, before speaking in a strangely calm, wise, voice.

"But will material gain fill the gaping hole in your heart?" Orrin frowned at him.

"What hole in my heart? My heart is whole." But the Rider shook his head.

"The hole. It calls out to you for something you can't recognise, which you presume is power and influence, but the power of the King of Surda is not enough. You feel compelled to search still for more, even when Surda is larger than ever before. You try to quiet the calling within, to feed that which calls until it can call no more. But even now it calls to you. You think you want to control more, me, Taiven, other Riders, you want more. The calling is incessant. Insatiable. It never seems to stop, calling to you. You want the power, or you think you do. You try to obtain more of that which you suspect you need, yet you never attempted to identify that which you craved so badly. Certainly, it is not that which you suspect it is. If the void in your heart required power to fill, surely the calls would have quietened by now. But they haven't. They continue, never to end." He paused, letting Orrin soak up the words. He seemed to recognise them; they struck a chord with him, though not one that was entirely correct.

Murtagh continued, "I felt the same once. There was a lack of substance in my heart. It called for something, something unknown. I tried to ignore it, to set myself things to keep me occupied. Training with Tornac. Escaping the name of my father and the constraints of my prison. Hunting the Ra'zac, for a time. Getting out of the Empire with Eragon. Yet still my heart called, sucking up into itself, caring for no others. And in Tronjiem, it found what it sought, and it relieved its pain even more, strangely, in Uru'baen. You have not yet found what yours seeks, that which makes it call to you so loud, and I suspect that it calls for the same thing as mine did so long ago. You will, of course, discard my advice on this matter, and continue this quest for power. You are stubborn, and I fear it shall take even more war and suffering before you realise that it is not power and territory which you desire so much and embrace that which is truly your need rather than your want. You have to accept that you neither need nor want power on the scale which you seek to obtain it.'

"That which you crave, Orrin, that which you crave so badly that you are forced to kill thousands, a greater power than any you have known, which is currently involved in a crisis over its own identity with one who lacks it, that which drives you, or so you think, to lash out at the innocents of this world, is love. The gap within you wishes for someone to fill it, someone you love. For me, Nasuada and Thorn bridge the void of pain, or at least, when she was alive she did. For Stronghammer, his wife. For Eragon, Saphira, and from what I have seen of them, possibly Arya. Everyone needs it, or at least something to do to temporarily fill the gap. But when it doesn't, all have to find the one to hold their heart, or be miserable and lonely for the rest of time. Losing the one you love can cause more pain, and have the same, though worsened, effect, but it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. You have a choice, Orrin. Find love, or fight, and condemn maybe fifty thousand more to death, not to mention the misery of those who lose their loved ones because of the deaths you caused. Without love, life loses purpose. Loses focus. Loses happiness. Sends you into a spiral of depression and madness. This I know. This I am experiencing." Thorn nudged Murtagh heavily then, turning his head and staring into Murtagh's eyes, blocking him from Orrin's view. Murtagh's hand stroked the snout, and Thorn moved his head back, lowering it to the floor, though with a concerned look in his eyes, if that was possible for a dragon. Orrin wasn't sure.

Gazing into Orrin's eyes, obviously serious, Murtagh went on. "I tell you this for one reason. I am not sorry for you, far from it. Any heartbreak I can cause you I will. I am trying to insult you by saying that you will not love, and you heart is hollow, but it is merely a statement of the truth as I see it, which you commanded me to tell you at all times, so in that manner I can get my own small bit of revenge. Someone else can crack your skull though. As well, I am trying to get you to relent in your pursuit of power and to turn to peace the way things are and therefore save thousands from sadness akin to that which I am feeling. Although, on a whole, it is more because of the former that I speak, as I know you will refuse to listen anyway. So that is what I mean when I say you have that hole in your heart. It cannot be filled and consumed by the fuels of war. Love is the only saviour you will have from the pain within." With that final statement, Murtagh turned his back on the King.

Orrin considered his words. _Love? I desire love, he says? Certainly, I do feel a need for something deep within me, but the need is partially sated whenever I expand my power more. When my troops passed the numbers of fifty thousand, this gap which he claims exists was filled. With two Riders under my control, I was pleased throughout myself. When Belatona was taken, my pride swelled and filled it. And now, in control of the largest army of humans in the world, I reside in the largest human city in the world, and it is under my sole control, and I am satisfied. Well, I will be when humans in the world, then kill all those Urgal beasts. And then... we'll see. Hang on a minute, is he partially right? All I want is more land and power. Will I ever be satisfied with what I have? Or will I push the boundaries of the map to their limits? Well, if I do, I shall be the most powerful being in history, and I shall be pleased with that. In fact, History shall be what I want it to be. It shall be my reign, and it shall be glorious! _With that, Orrin pushed all self-doubting thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrated on the matter at hand; silencing Murtagh's questions.

"You are mistaken. I know when I should be content with what I have."

"And when will that be? When you own everything from here to Alalea?"

Orrin frowned. "Where's that?"

"Somewhere Galbatorix mentioned. His next conquest after Alagaesia or some such triviality. But anyway, answer the question." Murtagh was persistently annoying, and it was starting to get to Orrin.

"That shall be when I am content. And this hole in my heart of which you speak, if it even exists, which it does not, shall be filled by my strength and achievements. I have no need to find love to find happiness. Happiness can be found in pride, comfortable surroundings, a good drink and a warm fire. There is no need for love as well." But Murtagh still had a reply ready.

"Just as there is no need for control over the whole of Alagaesia either. And greater happiness still can be found with love. One of the happiest moments of my life, if not the happiest, possibly second only to freedom from Galbatorix, was when I kissed Nausada, just before your oath forced me to kill her, despite it also being quite likely the saddest. Without love, life is hardly worth living, at least, not half as much. Personally, Thorn helps, but for you, you have no one. You sad little person. I would feel sorry for you if not for what you have done, and Eragon would anyway. He's just that sort of person. Unfortunately, my restrictions on what I can say prevent me from speaking my true mind on these matters and telling you the full measure of your intelligence, so I will say this: Your lack of love shall destroy any chance at happiness that you may yet receive." Murtagh's persistence was extremely irritating, so Orrin chose to end the conversation. Besides, he didn't want to hear what was being said and possibly consider it being truthful, his determination and pride refusing him the chance to even consider accepting the words.

_I shall not falter. Alagaesia and this puny Rider shall both cower before me!_ The King asserted his thoughts mentally, certain of himself. He started to give Murtagh his orders for the battle, shoving the Rider's words out of his mind, but was interrupted from behind.

"He's right, you know. Don't try to deny it. In many of the elven epics and tales, the separation of lovers, or their absence in life, makes people feel terrible, some even considering death. Linnea, an ancient elf of great standing, sung herself into a tree after her lover betrayed her and she killed him. In 'Du Silbena Datia,' which literally translates as 'The Sighing Mists,' an elven song of great fame and meaning, two elves, mates, Acallamh and Nuada, were separated by longing for the sea, and in the end it practically tore the both of them apart from the inside." Orrin turned slowly to see Taiven, sitting cross-legged in her cage, leaning against Miremel for support. The eyes of the brown dragon were closed, but her muscles were tensed, and her ears twitched occasionally, showing that she was alert and ready. Not that she would be able to do anything. The both of them were trapped. Taiven's eyes revealed sorrow, sorrow for herself, Miremel, Murtagh, and Thorn, Orrin presumed. She leant her head back and softly spoke the words of a song.

_O liquid temptress 'neath the azure sky,_

_Your gilded expanse calls me, calls me._

_For I would sail ever on,_

_Were it not for the elven maid,_

_Who calls me, calls me._

_She binds my heart with a lily-white tie,_

_Never to be broken, save by the sea,_

_Ever to be torn twixt the trees and the waves._

"That is but a small part of Du Silbena Datia. All the Riders are taught something of elven culture, though I suspect Murtagh has not heard it before." Orrin glanced at the red dragon and Rider, surprised to see that Murtagh appeared touched by the song, though he himself merely thought of it as a soppy fool's dream. That was all he thought of the whole affair. "I know that you likely feel contempt for this, Orrin, but it is something more pure and true than you have probably ever felt. Some of the tales of the elves are truly works of art, masterful, magical pieces that entrance and enrapt you, capturing your attention in their sweet words and melodies and binding it there with the fascination of hearing that which cannot be expressed in words expressed in words, the sweet tunes ringing in your ears gently before fading, fading away... On occasion, elves will sing a single song for three days straight, that which tells the story of their terrible war with the dragons being prominent among the numbers of such long poems. The emotion that is expressed by their work is staggering, touching, amazing, and it made me realise just how much of an impact love can have on anyone. Though you do not understand this, Orrin, and despite myself, I pity you for it. You do not know, never have known, and will likely never know, one of the greatest things this world has to offer."

"And why do you presume that I never have known love? You know not my past. You know not my sorrow. You know only your preconceived misconceptions, which lead you astray from the cold light of truth, which sinks further into grief than you may imagine. So cease your talk and listen!" The two Riders fell silent. They had little choice.

_They know nothing of what I felt. My past is my own, as is my grief. I can wallow in it for as long as I want, or as little time as I want. They have forever to feel the pain and shame of what I do now, if that is what they feel. I couldn't care less about their feelings._

"You will listen and obey. Understand?" After a couple of nods, Orrin continued. "Tomorrow, at dawn, my armies shall be in position in front of the Empire's camp. Just before the sun's rays rise across the sky, both dragons shall swoop downwards and burn as many as they can of the tents, with their Riders on their backs. You, Taiven, shall remain in the air afterwards, alert for the coming of any Riders or dragons. Murtagh, you and Thorn are going to land and search out Jormundur and Roran Stronghammer. You defeat any guards they may have. If you find them, your priority is Roran. The morale blow of his loss will be monumental. However, you shall switch from this task and defend with Taiven upon any signs of Riders. If there are more than there are of you, retreat towards the city and retrieve the Dauthdaert from where it shall be set upon the balcony. You will fight them again with it, and if you can, you shall lure them down towards the walls, where another surprise awaits them." Murtagh frowned.

"What surprise is this?"

"I chose not to tell you for a reason, you know. And I still won't. Do you understand your orders?" A nod from each of the Riders. "Will you carry them out to the best of your ability?" Two more nods. "Then tonight I shall come and release you from the cages. You shall then stay silent and make no attempt to warn or communicate with the Empire as you fly overhead. When the time comes, you shall do as I commanded, and Jormundur's pathetic attempt at an army shall begin the process of being slaughtered." Bringing an abrupt ending to the conversation, Orrin turned and strode off to his group of elite 'Varden' to travel back to the city and prepare the troops for the attack.

He looked upwards and saw that there were still several hours left in the day, before glancing at the encampment that was a few miles from the city.

It would burn tomorrow, as the red light of dawn struck the sky.


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter 49: Nightly Movements.**

A mouse twitched its nose in the darkness, sniffing for predators. It knew all their smells and noises instinctively. It could tell rabbit from hare, dog from fox, cat from all of those, and it tended to avoid the lot of them. Any other normal animal smells were likewise ignored. The mouse would only move towards food and other mice. There was safety in numbers. Yet there was a different smell in the air tonight. It was similar to that of a human, yet it had a musky tinge to it unlike anything it had smelt on a human before. It sniffed the air again. The smell was still there, downwind, stronger if anything.

Not a sound could be heard apart from the talk of humans where they massed in groups around sticks that glowed with a strange orange thing flickering above them. Nothing other than the wind blowing through the bushes and whistling past the rock face just above the mouse could be heard. The mouse relaxed, focusing its senses on finding the nuts and seeds that would sustain it through the winter to come. The smell, though strange, was bothering it very little, and with no other hints of danger it carried on foraging for whatever it could find.

Suddenly, a dark blur shot from the sky and snatched at the mouse with sharp claws. The tiny creature smelt an overpowering wave of the same smell as before, but could only emit a tiny squeal before sharp talons embedded themselves in its neck and side, sinking deep and tearing flesh, and the mouse passed into the void.

Solembum picked the pathetic creature up by the tail, swung it into the air, and caught its body in his mouth, biting with force and easily crunching through its ribcage. He returned to the top of the rock he had been watching from in a roundabout way, looking for more prey. The mouse was barely any sustenance at all, and he needed more meat.

Solembum was in his cat form, always preferred to that of a human when hunting, for obvious reasons. His ears pricked, he prowled around the edge of a bush, glancing around for any sign of animals. A sniff and a worn path through the dry landscape revealed a rabbit trail. Solembum stalked along it, wary of any trouble or ambushes, his eyes glancing around in what to any human would be the pitch black darkness of night, though he could see perfectly well, despite the late hour. Nothing suspicious revealed itself to him, however, and he reached the end of the trail unhindered. A hole, dark even to his eyesight, appeared ahead of him, with the scent of rabbit becoming stronger around the area.

He peered in, ears twitching uncomfortably, to see if there was any way he could fit into the burrow's entrance. He considered making himself into a smaller form, but discarded the idea as he got a small glimpse at the occupant of the hole, which, it seemed, had come to investigate what was happening at the surface, outside its home.

Two gleaming, red dots, glowing slightly in the shadow, came into view. The scent of rabbit came over him again, but it was less tempting now. The eyes were unnerving him, and Solembum hissed and backed off, heeding the warnings Angela had given him once about such creatures as the red-eyed one which crouched ahead of him. He hissed, and spat at it, before turning and waving his tail above his body and walking off, pretending to ignore the unnatural creature behind him. He heard scuffling behind him as he walked off, and quickly reached out his mind to determine the location of the creature, though giving no outward sign.

He only caught a glimpse of a strange and twisted mind heading underground before his tendril of thought was met by earth and could go no further.

Returning to the boulder, his hunt forgotten, Solembum leapt gracefully onto it and sat, twisting his head around to get his bearings. The two camps-one for the cavalry, the other the main body of the Empire-were behind him, sentries vigilantly patrolling the barriers erected around the camp; or at least, so was the plan. While the men in the rather smaller camp of the cavalry were alert and watchful, the men assigned to the main camp's boundaries were simply crowded around fires, keeping warm in the cold night. They almost didn't deserve Solembum to be keeping watch for them. But he disliked the King of Surda, and if watching in the early hours of the morning would foil his plans, the werecat would happily accept the sacrifice.

In front was more of what to any human eye would be pure blackness, yet Solembum could see in great detail. He saw the multiple bushes and trails through them. He saw the movement of several mice like the one he'd caught as they picked their way through the undergrowth. He saw the shadowy, ominous shape of Uru'baen in the distance...

He saw the movement of thousands of people in the darkness ahead of him. He heard their armour clinking as they walked, but their movements were slow, in order to make sure that the sounds were reduced as much as possible. Solembum's ears flickered as the quiet snort of a horse was heard somewhere to the left of the group he had seen. A much larger force of cavalry came into view, moving along with the infantry towards the right flank of the Empire's camp, where Solembum had positioned himself. He glanced around himself in all directions, noting the fact that none of the lookouts had seen anything yet, before taking a glance up at the sky.

Two great shapes hovered there, above the camp of the Empire. They flew in circular paths, gliding mainly, so as to avoid the sound of wingbeats alerting anyone. Solembum could make out the forms of Riders on their backs.

Warily, the werecat stood up, crouching on the rock in preparation as the large army advanced in front of him. He reached out his mind to the tent of Stronghammer, finding the leader awake, thinking about his wife and the upcoming battle. The man hastily armoured his mind at the werecat's touch, but Solembum was already in.

_You wanted a warning about the attack. A great force of infantry and an even greater one of cavalry approaches the right flank, which remains unaware of any danger, and dragons hover above, ready to strike. It would appear that you are needed to lead your people and horses to defend the king, and all the rest of it. Basically, get moving._ As the man sat up in alarm and started to dress hurriedly, Solembum retracted his mental probe. He started to alert the other leaders with his mind as well. Jormundur summoned his captains, Angela began to prepare her Huthvir, and the Rider, Dusan, jumped to his feet and cast a spell of invisibility over himself before charging out of his tent and running to the location of his dragon, Laenar, who was some distance away from the camp in a position of observation and ambush. He left it to the Rider to wake his dragon, as he was certain that Laenar would be severely angry at being woken up by a strange consciousness at night.

The werecat, still in his cat form, switched to a hair colour of midnight black. The sleek, dark form slipped off the boulder where it had been sitting sentinel, and prowled off into the night, shadows embracing the form of the cat as it was lost from sight within the bushes, heading for the larger of the two camps. Behind it, men rode forwards, ready and prepared for the signal to attack as dawn grew ever closer, and fate advanced on those who would fight.

The next day would decide the fate of the human race.


	50. Chapter 50

**Chapter 50: Flames at the Break of Dawn.**

Roran armoured himself quickly, before rushing out of his tent. It was positioned in the middle of a circle of tents that were owned by some of his captains, with their horses picketed in an area in the middle. He roused Horst, who was in the tent to his left, and told him to go around the circle, waking the officers and telling them to report to him outside his tent immediately. He did the same with the man who was situated in the tent to his right, Arnet, officially his second-in-command, and a friend, although he placed greater trust in Horst. Within minutes, the group had gathered around Roran, and he spoke quickly and urgently.

"Listen well, and do not panic. The Surdans are converging on the flanks of the main camp, numbers great in men and horse. They likely plan to attack at dawn, or with some type of pre-arranged signal. Ready your men as quickly and quietly as you can. Messengers shall be sent to run and wake each company, and they shall all assemble at the west entrance. It is far enough from the right flank not to be heard, unlike the south entrance, and we have enough space coupled with a relatively simple path leading around to where we can flank them and take them by surprise. Mount your horses, contact your subordinates, we ride to destroy those who oppose the peace." The men accepted their commands, and all but Horst and Arnet quickly left to do as he had commanded and to prepare for the fight themselves. Roran quickly jumped onto Snowfire, before sliding off with a quiet oath and going into his tent to fetch the saddle. The other two did likewise.

Roran glanced around at the host of many thousands, indistinct in the night. Upon Snowfire, he was at their head, Horst to the left, Arnet to the right. Other leaders-captains of different divisions, possibly some magicians-were spread out across the lines, a short distance ahead of the troops they commanded, but none were in positions as advanced as the three men at the head.

Roran warily drew his hammer in preparation for fighting. It slid from his belt soundlessly, the wooden handle passing the leather in silence, and he smiled for a second, glad of such a simple weapon and the fact that it would not alert others of his presence.

A second or two later, every single man of the Varden within eyesight drew his sword, metal grating against metal harshly and quite loudly, creating a chorus of sounds that Roran could have sworn would be heard by someone in the darkness. The army quieted when he held up a hand. No calls of alarm or surprise were heard, but Roran wanted to be sure that none had been alarmed or alerted by the noise.

He beckoned a man that he knew was a magician forwards, riding back to meet him between his group of three and the main army. The man appeared puzzled and awed that the general had called for him, but Roran just grabbed his arm, not willing to waste any time.

"You are a magician, correct?" The man nodded. "Reach out your mind to the plains and tell me what you feel." A blank expression passed over the man's face, and a few seconds later, he blinked, gasping, and looked at Roran again.

"There is no human life for quite a distance ahead of us, but a massive force masses further away. I touched a guarded mind, but pulled away as soon as I did, and I doubt the man thought much of it, or could judge its place of origin." Roran nodded, and the man moved back into his position. Roran re-joined his two commanders at the front.

Snowfire's colour seemed to glow in the darkness, the great animal holding his head high and proud. A black mare was Horst's mount, and it shook it's neck wildly as the large blacksmith turned in the saddle to look at Roran as he came up to them. His sword was drawn, the same as the swords of the other men. It was an ordinary blade, not particularly distinctive. They exchanged nods, and Roran took his place again, glancing at the other man as well.

Arnet rode on a horse which seemed to have patches of dark and light on its side, some of which were practically white, the rest brown, which had earned it the nickname 'Cow,' to great amusement from all concerned. Arnet protested against the term, but none paid heed to his dislike, and even he now referred to the steed as a stupid bovine whenever it attempted to rear and shake him off, as happened quite regularly. It was a spirited creature.

The second-in-command himself was quite short, a curved sword in his hand, made for hacking and cleaving. A harsh look crossed his face momentarily as he stared towards the unseen attackers, somewhere in the night, before looking back at Roran.

"Bleak is the future for many poor souls tonight." Both Horst and Roran nodded, unwilling to talk much before such a momentous battle, though Roran did spare a few words.

"Aye, it is, but we must fight." A sign of acknowledgement came from both men, and Roran took a look at the sky. It appeared to be slightly lighter than before, but he could not say for sure. What he could tell was that they had to move soon, if their plan was to work and their guesses be proven correct.

Apprehension rose in Roran, wariness, caution, and anticipation being his primary emotions. Jormundur would be preparing now. He would have alerted the commanders, they would have prepared men to wake people up, though not actually have done it yet, so as not to make unnecessary noise and alert any attackers, and men ready to call the alarm for an attack would be stationed throughout the camp. Roran's men were the only ones that were prepared beforehand, as they were stationed away from the rest of the camp and would therefore be unseen by the Surdans, not to mention the fact that they would best capitalise on their plan if they were alert and awake at the same time.

Roran raised his hammer above his head, then pointed it forwards silently and nudged Snowfire into a slow trot. The three leaders advanced, and the mass of men and horses behind them did likewise, heading west in order to come round behind the enemies on the right flank of the main camp. Advancing down a large, dirt road, dust rising into the night, they rode to Fate, and whatever it might bring.

The army had circled into a position slightly over a mile from the right flank of the camp. Nothing was visible in the darkness. The watchfires of the camp had faded from view with distance. Barely a sound was made as they waited. The stamp of a single horse's hoof was dull and quiet, due to the soft and dry soil of the ground, yet still the sound seemed to carry, and tension in the air rose a little bit more. Nervous glances were passed around, men managing to see the faces of their comrades for the first time that night.

_Wait._

Something wasn't right.

_They can see each other now?_

_The first time this night?_

Dawn was on its way, fast. Roran looked ahead, to the east, hoping to catch a glimpse of the first rays of sunlight, the fiery flames alighting the land and revealing to him if the werecat was correct and a vast army stood between him and the Empire or not.

Flames burst into being in the east, but it wasn't the sun.

Twin blazing infernos spiralled down from the sky, their sources shifting and spinning above the camp. A few seconds later, immense, booming roars rang across the sky, and Roran winced in recognition. Dragons. The tents burnt, and agonised cries were heard as a blaze sprung up. Orders were yelled in the distance, horns blew, and the whole scene was momentarily cast into greater light as the dragons came down again, the truth of Solembum's words now becoming alarmingly obvious.

Outlined against the flames and the tents, a phenomenal amount of cavalry stood still. Then, moving as one, they started a trot forwards, picking up speed as they went, faster and faster towards the camp. Infantry, nearer to the barricades and stakes than the cavalry, and further to Roran's right, ran too, heading for the guards that even then appeared to be in a state of panic. Luckily, more organised groups were already moving among the flames, some stationing themselves in defensive positions. But they would all be overcome if Roran did nothing. He could not see the force assaulting the part of the camp nearer to the city, but the troops ahead of him could easily wreak havoc. He silently raised his hammer, hearing a collective intake of breath behind him.

Then, he charged.

Clinging onto Snowfire, emotions other than battle rage and anger left him. His men followed, all of them, spears raised. No war cries issued from their mouths; it was a surprise attack from behind. A single sound would alert their enemies and give them the time to take full use of their advantage of numbers, while at the same time reducing the Empire's hopes of a surprise attack to pointless hopes, soon to be changed and destroyed. The sound of their enemies hooves, increasing in volume and louder anyway, masked the galloping noises of Roran's forces, which was quickly gaining on the Surdans, who had started at a slower speed, while Roran's had given their full pace since the very start of their charge. However, the enemies were still speeding up, heading fast towards the embankments and stakes surrounding the camp.

And then, with an almighty sound, they met the defences head-on. By then, men had retrieved pikes and spears, and were standing, ready to fight off the horsemen as dozens of their horses impaled themselves on the spikes, those that did not being met with stabbing defenders. But the sheer numbers of the cavalry, and the somewhat haphazard positions of the Empire's watchers, meant that many broke through, gaps in the defenders' ranks offering easy passage through. They whirled and attacked the men still defending the boundaries of the camp, allowing even more to pass the dead bodies of their comrades. But the easy entrance into the ranks was not to go unpunished.

Roran's men were right behind them, and Roran struck their first blow, easily breaking a man's back, moving past and striking a man in the face with the sharp end of the weapon. The first soldier crumpled noiselessly in his saddle, dead, and the second collapsed, Arnet catching up and beheading him in case he made a sound. On Roran's other side, Horst sank his blade deep into flesh. Then, the main body of soldiers met the backs of the Surdans, spears ready. The back line of the enemy troops was almost entirely wiped out in the first assault. Not all the kills were clean, though, and screams rang out, alerting the rest of the massive group to the attack, but the majority of the soldiers had inadequate room to turn and the driving force and initiative remained with Roran. They pressed on, Roran now having to catch blows on his shield and finding it harder to get a clean strike on an enemy. A man ducked a strike to the head, and Roran cursed, as the man lashed out with a backhanded blow, which was deflected by the shield. Another attack of Roran's was evaded in the same way, then, frustrated, whilst blocking a similar attack to the previous, sent the blunt end into the man's leg, crushing it and drawing a terrible cry from the man, before following up his attack by simply smashing the man's chest in. Advancing further, he found that many of the men were starting to find space to turn around, and were engaging him and his men in proper combat, head-on.

After a particularly tricky duel with a soldier, in which one arm and a leg were broken and the Surdan continued fighting, though grimacing in pain, as well as ever, and Roran had to sneakily wind him with a blunt lunge from the hammer, concealed behind an attempt to move forwards and block an overhead strike before finally managing to break his skull in, Roran glanced around to see that the forwards momentum had been cut short, and his men were struggling against the sheer numbers of the enemy. He released an angry yell, "Onwards! For the Empire! For Jormundur! For Nasuada! For our future!" His soldiers roared in reply, surging on and stabbing at the Surdans in rage. The tide of the battle turned, on their side again. Roran and his two commanders lead from the front, fighting alongside their men, pushing deep into the ranks of the Surdans. Their men did likewise around them, but to their flanks, morale was dropping slowly as numbers came around to flank them. Pressure was forcing the Empire men to fall back, to curve in on themselves. The group was becoming packed together, Surdans on three sides, pushing forwards on one of them, the other two thinning rapidly. Though the Surdans were still more, Roran could tell that they had lessened in number considerably, but something more would be needed if he were to beat them. Their numbers appeared to be thinnest at a point directly in front of him, and there was a lower amount of people diagonally to his left as well. Two deft blows to a couple of skulls allowed him to reach Arnet's side, Horst likewise following him. The three fought a group of five soldiers that charged at them, disposing of them with relative ease.

"Arnet!" Roran shoved a man back as he spoke, the end of his hammer thrusting the air out of his chest. He followed it up with a series of strikes to the head, which were well-guarded by a shield, as the second-in-command blocked a thrust from a spear and replied.

"What?" Roran smashed the shield of the man to the left and disposed of him.

"Take some men with you and cut through their masses! To the front! Split them up! Pincer to the left afterwards!" The man nodded and hacked his way off to the side, to where a distinct company of men were fighting alongside their captain. Arnet called to them, and they rallied behind him, organised in the chaos of the battle, before advancing in formation, speedily forging a path through the vast army. The sudden, arranged assault pushed hundreds of Surdans back towards the still-standing fortifications, where some men with spears and pikes mounted a defence, and eventually the enemies were going to be divided, split in two. Roran yelled a command to the men that amassed behind him, and they too formed a group, and he and Horst charged off on a diagonal to Arnet's course, where he had seen a few breaks in the crowds of orange-clad soldiers. Like with Arnet's group, they cut through with relative ease. The battle was now more a series of small skirmishes between the more numerous Surdans and the men of Roran's troops, like the dwarves at the Burning Plains they broke through the battling groups in a powerful mass.

Yet, like the Burning Plains, the numbers were against them. Roran would smash a hand, then a helm, and the man would fall, but more would come, and they came from the sides as well. But the group hurried on, and broke the disorganised ranks of the Surdans in two, for the second time. Roran whirled to the right, intending to lead his men that way and crush a large portion of the men of Surda between his force and Arnet's. But the fighting was hard, fast, and fierce. His force only dwindled with time, and though the Surdan group ahead of him was weakening rapidly, Arnet's force on the other side having utilised the same train of thought as Roran, his own troops were falling rapidly. Having some of their comrades turn and be forced to fight enemies coming from behind the group got more of them killed, distracted the others in the group, and reduced the number pushing forwards. Roran still fought, through the ache in his arms, battering at the defences of the men in his field of vision. They were all he focused on.

A man wielding a bow appeared in front of him, an unusual weapon for such a situation. Roran deduced that he would have previously had a sword, which was lost or broken in battle, so he had resorted to his longer-range weapon. But the weapon presented a unique difficulty to Roran. Drawn and strung, the man was aiming straight at Roran, as if he knew who he was, and the only thing Roran could do was raise his shield above his face and chest and wait for someone to kill the man already! A glance revealed that no help was forthcoming, and he hid his head immediately, wary of a shot. The man, he noticed, had an evil expression on his face, a smug expression. An expression of someone who had just found a way to cause another pain and relished it.

Snowfire buckled under him, throwing him to the ground. He rolled to the side, freeing his foot from the saddle as he did so and holding his shield above his head, rising to his feet with a glance around himself. Suddenly, the battle seemed a lot more daunting without his impressively large mount.

The horse, a gift from Eragon so long ago, lay in the mud, an arrow in his brain. The man who had fired the arrow was struggling to put another to the string and draw the bow, and Roran took advantage of that by yanking him off the saddle, mounting up himself, and smashing the head of the soldier in in retribution. The man collapsed, bow forgotten along with everything else he had ever known, and Roran spurred the new, light brown horse towards its former companions and allies. He emerged at Horst's side again, the blacksmith striking his foes with massive strength born of years of work at the forge, quickly blocking an attack that would have beheaded his friend and sending a looping attack in retaliation, before again leading his men and crushing their foes between them.

A man who was armed with a mace emerged in front of him, a cold stare on his face. Roran blocked the powerful blow with his hammer, sparing a grin as the man recoiled, shocked that the simple wood had held against the strength, metal, and weight of the mace. Eragon's spells of strength on the weapon worked still. Taking advantage of the man's surprise, a bash to the hand disarmed the Surdan, and from then, the victory between them was Roran's. With ease, a hit to the side as the man turned, trying to run, set up a simple backbreaking blow that Roran placed in the perfect place for instant death. Turning, he looked for another opponent, only to see a spear being jabbed straight at his eye.

The metal of the tip sparkled ominously in the light cast by the burning camp, still the only visible source of light, though the sky was brightening with a great pace.

Roran's trustworthy hammer was by his side, low, unable to protect him.

His shield in his left hand, on the opposite side. Practically useless.

The manic glint in the eye of the wielder.

The extraordinary slowness with which the scene proceeded.

The shocked and agonised cries of his companions.

The strange point emerging from the chest of the wielder.

The manic glint, fading fast.

The spear itself, clattering to the ground under the horse's feet.

_Wait._

Arnet ripped his sword to his right, tearing the body of the soldier to the side and charging over to take his place at Roran's side.

"Thanks for that," Roran muttered, relieved, and Arnet just grinned.

"Something to tell the kids about, saving Stronghammer's life! My group, I think, had an easier time than you with the pincer motion. They were focusing more on you than us, so we managed to take a great portion of them with little trouble. Should we join your group and assist the rest of the troops?" After a glance at Horst, Roran nodded to Arnet, who raised a horn and blew it thrice. A large group of Empire soldiers flocked to the call, eliminating most of the soldiers between the two groups and amassing behind the three, a smaller replica of the assembled army from the start of the battle, though a great deal smaller, and not entirely complete. Several thousand of them were still engaged in battle elsewhere, and they were all massively outnumbered.

As Roran surveyed the battlefield, the sun finally burst into view, showering them all in golden light for a few precious, beautiful seconds, when it seemed like all was right in the world and nothing could go wrong. All the men, on either side, turned their heads to the sun, wondering at its beauty. Then, Roran remembered the hammer in his hand and the armour on his shoulders, and sighed aloud as the fighting broke out around him again, the moment of unity and amazement broken by the shouts and cries of dying men.

_What has the world come to?_

Roran yelled a war cry, and charged forwards again, though not far, fighting just a few seconds later, heading straight for the left flank of the enemy, just about the strongest side of the enemy forces. The middle of the battle ground, which they were trying to get through, was spread with a variety of troops from both sides; the enemy's right flank was being hotly contested between a large group of Surdans and a marginally smaller group of Roran's men. At the left, Empire men were fighting fiercely against a far superior mass of Surdans and being pushed back rapidly, and Roran deduced that it was that side if the battle where they were most needed. The two groups had greatly weakened the rear of the Surdans' army, and part of the right flank as well, and they pushed forwards at the left, Roran's war cry having alerted many of those between the two groups, distracting the Surdans and giving hope to the Empire men, who assisted in disposing of the intimidated Surdans, before charging along with Roran's group, falling into the ranks rather awkwardly.

Surdan men formed lines ahead of them, spears levelled at chest height. Roran yelled, "Shields!" and the men raised their shields to protect themselves as they thundered forwards. The Empire, once again, was smaller, but when the collision came, none shied away from it. Spears splintered on the shields, some got through, or past, resulting in screams of men and horses. Roran himself saw two spears coming for him, dashed one to the side with his hammer, which he left extended to crush the man's face as he rode on, and caught the other on his shield, head on, pushing the shield forwards and the spear slipped through the man's hand and struck him in the stomach, leaving him gasping for breath as the shaft of the spear broke off the tip, which remained embedded in Roran's shield. Leaving him for others to deal with, Roran ploughed on into the enemy ranks, men following, working with Arnet and Horst to bring down the soldiers that confronted him.

A squad of three met them after they broke through the lines. Roran took a direct approach; a hard smash towards the head of the middle one. It was dodged and deflected at the same time, and a stab quickly executed. Roran leant back, glancing around to see that the other two Surdans had likewise repelled the three Empire commanders. Roran raised the hammer again, but the blow was likewise blocked, and a fast response made. The three pairs were each evenly matched, or so it seemed, so Roran resorted to trickery.

Knowing that the Surdans had always placed high value on their horses, Roran pretended to move his mount closer and made as if to whack the man's horse's head with his shield. The sword was instantly there to block, and the hammer met the bottom of the man's chin half a second later. A backhand from that position caved in the ribcage of Arnet's opponent, and from there Roran leant across the back of the horse he'd pretended to hit and shattered the kneecap of Horst's attacker. The blacksmith disposed of the man quickly, and the three headed deeper into the mob, now unruly and disorganised, facing men like those they had just beaten, but none quite so good.

And the battle continued...

Roran's group was still less in size than their enemies, but they had the power, momentum, and morale to continue on and beat their enemies, though it would be a close thing, and the slightest change might alter the course of the battle. The small group that had been backing off at the start of Roran's assault on the enemy's left flank had regrouped and come around the side, joining Roran's main square of Empire men, providing vital reinforcements to the battered soldiers. Roran spotted the magician Fiark amongst the newcomers, raising a quick hand in greeting and getting a grim smile back. Past Fiark, there seemed to be a disturbance in the middle of the battleground, where men fought in ones and twos, but Roran thought nothing of it more than movement on the other flank, where another, if smaller-scale, fight between two more organised troops of men was taking place, and he continued onwards, leading his great square of men and horse further into the army of orange-clad cavalry that opposed them and their King.

Fire chilled Roran's blood, forcing him to fight on with greater vigour than ever as one man after the next came at him, and he came at them, his men tiring and falling, their men tiring and falling, an almost endless fight, but the end was in sight. Though his men were tried, and they were now encountering the men at the very sides of the fight, playing little part, and therefore more energised, the conclusion of the fight on that flank was being made. The Surdans were being pressed down towards the fortifications in an attempt to crush them between the swords of the soldiers and the stakes surrounding the camp. Roran's men were going to win. The group with Fiark in them was coming around in a flanking move, the endgame for the last thousand or so soldiers. They were backing up now, fearful, Roran and his men outnumbering them, finally. Roran pressed forwards on what he thought was the last big group that they would face, and eliminate, giving it his all in an effort to end the fight then and there. None of the Surdan men he could spot behind them were numerous enough to pose a threat. His force applied the finishing pressure on the enemy soldiers, Horst at his left, Arnet on the right, soldiers following hopefully, finally, inwards, to their victory!

A man raised his spear in front of Roran, aiming for a throw at him, and Roran roared in anger, hurling his hammer into the face of the soldier, which both surprised him and killed him, before quickly spurring his horse forwards to retrieve it, blocking blows with his shield, relying on the men at his back to protect him from any other attacks. He yanked the hammer out of the mud which it had stuck, shaft first, into, throwing it up to catch it by the handle, spinning it around and pummelling the skull of an attacking soldier, before Horst came up, protecting him further, and Arnet too arrived, hacking off a head and blocking a blow at the same time. Empire men surged around them, killing fast, relief on their faces that it was finally coming to an end. Roran and the other two brought their horses to a halt, allowing the others the ability to finally destroy the force that had attempted to flank the camp. None of them, obviously, had come off unscathed.

A long scratch ran down Horst's neck. Blood poured from his shoulder, trailing down his arm, and a nasty gash was on the side of his ribcage, but he was otherwise fine. Arnet had, strangely, three separate cuts on his left forearm, and a rather deep thigh wound as well. Roran, a special target, he presumed, had a cut in his cheek, injuries on both arms, a stab wound to the chest that he had cut short by crushing the man's own chest at the same time, and a horse had practically crushed his foot with its ribcage against his own, resulting in a rather sore bruise, and a possibly twisted ankle.

"So that's the end of Snowfire, eh, Stronghammer? Pity. Good horse, that." Arnet gazed at Roran's new mount, evaluating it, "But you've found a decent replacement, at least. Not as good, but decent."

"Thanks, but I can't say the same to you. That's a cow, Arnet, not a horse! Oh, no, it's just Cow. My mistake."

"And an easy one to make too," Horst put in, earning the both of them a hard glare from the second-in-command, who relented after a few seconds, and asked a question.

"You going to name it?" Roran considered the question.

"I'll have to see if I get through this first, if you get what I mean." Roran looked away, uneasily, seeing that the middle of the battlefield, again, was disturbed. The small groups that had begun to develop in the gap of just a few soldiers fighting each other, away from Roran's battalion or so, and whatever had been happening on the other flank of the conflict, were all looking away from each other now, at what had once been the location of the Surdans' right flank, blocked from Roran's view.

Suddenly, a cheer went up from the men of Surda. Several groups of ten or so Empire horsemen began to back off from them, towards Roran and his men, fear on their faces. More followed them, the Surdans themselves doing nothing to stop them, heading away, amassing, and eventually, every man under Roran's command still standing had amassed next to him, giving him a glimpse of what they had seen on the other side of the field.

The battle on Surda's right flank, going so well when Roran had last seen it, appearing roughly even, had tilted to Surda's favour with his departure. About two thousand men were grouping at the other end of the battlefield, Roran's own being a mere thousand or so at last check. The remaining troops had been dealt with with ease, pressed back, and Roran's men were assuming a formation behind their three leaders again. Counting the men who had retreated to their support from the middle of the battle, their numbers were at about one thousand two hundred. Outnumbered almost impossibly. With no support in sight. Not a good start to a day, or a good end to a battle.

Wait, there was support. A few hundred spearmen were still on the walls, and Roran quickly called to them for support. The men assembled into ranks, in double lines of fifty, three of them, and marched down from the embankment, a while away, being a third of the distance between the two opposing cavalry groups away, and the Surdans hastily began to move forwards towards Roran's group. Roran glanced around, uncertain as to what to do, but he realised that standing cavalry could do nothing against a strong charge, and even less when they were outnumbered, so he would have to face fire with fire, speed with speed, cavalry charge with cavalry charge. However, he would need to be near enough to the spearmen for them to have enough of an impact to win, meaning, he would have to judge the speed of his own men and the speed of theirs to make sure that the two forces met as close to the men as possible. To make the task easier, he raised a hand to the lines of men for them to halt, and, puzzled expressions prevalent on their faces, they did so.

By then, the enemies were much closer. "People! You have fought well and hard, but there is one more task to do! Will you fall at the last attempt, or will you fight them?" A roar rose from the men, and Roran yelled too, his voice ringing out over the plains. He waited for what he guessed was the right moment, before releasing a shout of, "Charge!"

Thunderous sounds rose from the hooves of the horses as they surged forwards, cries were torn from the throats of the men, and they charged as fast as they could across the already blood-stained ground, covered in bodies of men and horses. Roran's new, unnamed steed leapt gracefully over a couple of corpses, Arnet's 'Cow' doing likewise with surprising agility at Roran's side, Horst's mount being steered around the majority of the bodies. Many of his warriors were being slowed by the obstructions, but the same held true for their opponents, and the Surdans in fact were moving slower than they were, having been slowed down more, and were unable to pick up their pace again. Roran maintained his own pace, and some of his men did the same, quickly accelerating ahead of the main body. The spearmen, coming from the side, were likewise closing in.

"Speed up! Faster!"

Roran's encouragement invoked a response from the men behind him, more catching up to the first, fastest, group. Roran prepared for the last stage of the battle. It all came down to this, for them. There were other fights elsewhere, probably another great group on the other side, not to mention the forwards assault of the infantry, but it was this that would decide the destiny of him and his men.

Anger.

Determination.

Anticipation.

_Fear?_ No, not for himself. For those he fought to help, those he fought to save, and those he fought alongside. He didn't let it show, just lifted his shield higher and brandished his hammer in the air to raise the confidence of his troops a little bit more.

And then the fight was upon him.

He battered at his opponents, utilising brute strength to break down both their defences and their major bone structures. Surdans threw themselves at him, in the hope of striking the fatal blow, but his hammer was strong, and his shield was thick, and his arms refused to back down and ache like they wanted to so badly, instead maintaining his performance to the best of their ability. Men came in front of him, and they died. It was as simple as that. But there were so many... The spearmen, he realised, had joined the battle, stabbing in from the side, forcing the Surdan army on the defensive on two fronts. However, their numbers advantage allowed them to send some men around to attack both groups of Varden from the back. The fact that the Empire's charge was more spread out, some men ahead of the others, meant that the first few ranks had been badly supported, and had fallen fast, but with the arrival of the rest, the fighting had evened out a bit. Now, they continued with great losses into the formation of their enemies, driving them back even as they were in the process of being attacked from behind.

The spearmen, on the right, had entered a square formation, all their spears facing outwards towards the men that attacked them from the front and behind. They were holding up their defences quite well and many of the Surdans were attempting to back off, moving away from the strong formation, only for the nearest men to jump forwards and spear them. About five hundred soldiers were occupied with them and they were falling quite fast.

Roran's men continued pushing, making progress, but more and more their opponents, he sensed, were giving way on purpose. Their centre was being pushed back rapidly, and suddenly Roran could tell what would happen.

The Surdans would split themselves down the middle, letting his own men do it for them. Then, they would press in from the sides, a two-fronted attack, leaving Roran's men to be crushed mercilessly against each other and killed with ease. A quick glance around confirmed his guess. Men on both sides of him, enemy commanders, he inferred, were issuing orders, waving arms, gesturing to their men in ways that seemed to suggest that he was right. Having realised the ploy, Roran was no closer to solving it. He would have to change the direction they were headed in, but which way? To the right and they would receive support from the spearmen, yet be forced to fight more men that were attacking the infantry unit. To the left, and it would mean no support, but a chance for the infantry to dispose of their attackers unhindered, and then attack from behind. To the left, and their enemies, mostly right-handed, would be at a disadvantage, forced to slash awkwardly across their bodies. To the right, the opposite. It was that which decided it for him.

"Head to the left! The left!" With that cry, Roran disposed of a soldier that came at him, before coming face-to-face with one of the commanders he had noticed earlier. The man appeared surprised and bewildered at Roran's change of direction, and Roran took full advantage of the lapse, a strong strike removing the spear from the man's hand with ease. The man, whom Roran had thought was just an ordinary soldier, grinned, and a mental attack hit Roran. Though it was much weaker than Eragon's had been when he had taught Roran, Roran had had very little practice since then. He quickly focused his mind on an image of his hammer, and the magician's smirk turned surprised before Roran bashed his face in and moved left again, where his men had turned, on the most part, and were facing half of the enemy forces against them. Some men, obviously, could not turn to the new direction, or risk attacks from behind, and they were slowly backing off and defending from the rear, but they were fewer in number, and soon to be overwhelmed. Roran smashed his hammer into a back as he came up behind a Surdan fighter, before seeing Arnet and Horst up ahead, fighting side by side with several other soldiers against a group of men that outnumbered them by four. He urged his horse on, to assist them in their battle, and caught up quite soon. Just not soon enough.

As two soldiers converged on an Empire man, Arnet shifted his position and fought at the man's side, deflecting blow after blow from the two, and from a man that had previously been attacking him. Though he was undoubtedly more skilled than any of them, he was continually forced to defend the other man as well, who was evidently a new recruit, and inexperienced-the gods alone knew how he had lived that long-to avoid losing the man who was really just as important as some extra target for the men, as a three-on-one would be simple for the three, no matter how skilled the one. Roran was almost near enough to join the duel himself when it happened.

Arnet leant across with his sword outstretched to try to deal a blow to one of the men, raising his shield to deflect an attack at the same time, but was forced to turn the lunge into an upwards slash to defend the young soldier from a simple decapitation stroke. The soldier he had been lunging at to start with took advantage of the moment he took to regain his balance on the horse and sank his blade into Arnet's shoulder. The commander winced in pain, though luckily for him it was not his sword arm, and a quick slash gained him the soldier's head in retribution. But his shield's movements were slowed, and he was much more on the defensive than before. An attack looped towards the other soldier's head, and simultaneously a stab was directed at his throat. Instinct flickered the sword down to deflect the stab onto his shield, and the other man was killed easily. Arnet lashed out in anger at the killer, a near-unstoppable backhand stroke that hacked through his neck with ease, but his haste to obtain revenge turned out to be his undoing. As the fatal blow made contact, the final Surdan took his chance. Slipping his blade easily around the useless shield, his sword plunged into Arnet's chest just as Roran came alongside and ended the small section of the fight with a single strike to the skull. As his men advanced around him, pushing on towards the ever-dwindling group ahead of them, Roran stopped abruptly and looked at his friend, even as Horst rode on at the head.

Arnet was almost certainly going to die. Coughing up blood, he had maybe a minute to live, Roran guessed, at the most. Rather redundantly and hopelessly, he asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

A small grin tickled the lips of the second-in-command. "You can do a lot of things, Roran. One of them is win this battle. Another is keep the peace afterwards, and keep my family safe. They live in Gil'ead, by the way. And finally, you can name that damn horse already! It's irritating, the poor nameless thing. No name means no identity, which is sad, even for an animal. At least 'Cow' can make you laugh."

"I'll do as you say, friend. Good luck."

"Also, contact your cousin as soon as you can. I mean, he doesn't even know this is going on right now. He might do something and save the battle. But not me. I'm too far gone. I always was..." Roran found a bit of a tear in his eye in that second, but blinked it away as the warrior slumped in his saddle, passing into the void, replacing it with a glint of rage and charging back into battle.

The moment he began charging, however, he noticed the fact that there were very few soldiers in the direction that the majority of the Empire's men were headed, and he yelled an order; "Quick! Around!" Men whirled around, attacking the foes behind them with vigour. The two groups were of roughly equal size; around five hundred each. Roran was caught up in the middle of his own soldiers, and was momentarily confused as to which way he was supposed to go, before regaining his sense of direction and heading to the front lines again. Horst would have an even harder time regaining his position, as he was now at the back, but Roran soon found himself at the head again, as both armies strove against one another, neither Empire men nor Surdan men giving any ground. Every man there knew that the conflict, although such a small one in the grand history of the day, yet involving so many people, was going to come to a close only when the last man on the losing side fell, and all their efforts were needed to ensure victory. Any edge would tip the battle.

Then, that edge came. The spearmen that had been fighting against the cavalry force had finally prevailed, a hundred or so survivors attacking the rear of the Surdan forces and taking them almost entirely by surprise, so much so that fifty or more men fell before the main amount of them were even aware enough to strike back. By then, it was too late. Distracted and stabbed from both sides, the remainder of the Surdan cavalry was crushed, destroyed, and dismembered by the forces of the Empire. Roran himself pulverised skulls as they turned to face the new threat, forgetting about the old, and his forces easily eliminated the last of the distracted, confused soldiers. But it had come at a great price.

Surveying his forces, Roran could tell that not a single one had escaped injury. Some of the spearmen, who had been fighting defensively for the majority of the battle, had escaped unharmed. But no cavalryman of Roran's would leave that fight without a scar. And how many had left the fight mostly whole anyway?

A mere hundred of his cavalry remained, and about sixty or seventy of the spearmen still lived and breathed. From a force numbering in the thousands.

Remembering Arnet's words, Roran glanced around for a magician to contact Eragon. He couldn't see Fiark, or any other magicians he knew, and he glanced despairingly around the battlefield in search of any. There were bodies spread across it, all of it, Surdans and Imperials injured and dead, just lying on the ground. He heard a noise to the left, and a weak voice calling his mane, quickly turning to see Fiark.

The man had a spear impaled in his belly and was collapsed on the floor, bleeding heavily. Roran trotted up to him and dismounted his horse_. I need to give it a name, as Arnet asked._ He knelt next to the man, who smiled a grim smile.

"I can't heal myself, and I can't heal you, but I just wanted to say, Stronghammer, that this victory is yours, and well done. Without you, the world would be worse off." Roran nodded in acknowledgement of his words.

"Can you cast any magic? I'm sorry if it seems rude and inconsiderate, but I need to contact my cousin, now. The world is not exactly better off yet." Fiark grinned slightly.

"Can you see a mirror anywhere? Roran, this is a battlefield. I personally don't expect to find one." Roran cursed, but thought back to when Eragon had scried before. The first time, he had simply filled a bowl with liquid of some sort and scried from that. He glanced around for a bowl or container, but was forced to resort to removing his helmet and pouring some water from his waterskin into it. He passed it to Fiark, who quietly intoned the spell, before sinking backwards, even more tired than before. Roran stared at the water, willing it to reveal his cousin, but of course it simply showed the contents of his bag.

"Eragon! Quick, you fool! This is urgent!" Many of his men, he could tell, glanced at him and around the skies hopefully, but seeing nothing, they simply looked at him again, questioningly. But his focus was entirely on the water in the helmet.

Soon, the mirror was withdrawn from the saddlebag, and Eragon's face appeared on Saphira's back, after a few glimpses of wings, sky, and a green dragon and Rider in the background. Roran cut straight to the point.

"Surda has made its move. Our camp has been attacked with great force. My cavalry have defended one flank from an immense amount of troops, but at great cost, and this is but a fraction of the force which surely assaults the camp head-on, not to mention at the other side. Two dragons and Riders are above the camp and the soldiers, raining down fire on our tents and troops. We need support now, Eragon! Where are you?!" A gasp came from Eragon, and he peered lower, at the ground below. Fear lit his face.

"We are not yet over Gil'ead, much less Ilirea! How many men do you have?"

"I'd show you myself if I wasn't using water in my helmet to tell you this! One hundred cavalry and sixty spearmen, if even that. We need you now, Eragon! I don't care what it costs, just get yourself, your elf (pun intended), and your dragons here now!" Eragon closed his eyes, seemingly despairing, but when he opened them, they were full of determination and fear. His voice, as he spoke, was grim.

"I'll see what I can do. It might kill us all, but I'll see what I can do. No promises. Stay safe." The image vanished, and Roran sighed, before glancing at Fiark.

The man was dead, out of energy. So that was why the image had vanished. Roran nodded his head in respect to his fallen comrade, then mounted his horse again, running through tactics, plans, and names for the animal in his head as he did so. As he rode through the ranks of his men, few, battered and bruised as they were, every one of them muttered, 'Stronghammer,' as he went past, every one of them held his head high, and yet they were all silently grieving their dead comrades. And at that moment, he knew exactly what to call the horse.

_Arnet._

And he led them back into the fires of war.


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter 51: Above.

Taiven let her gaze scan the ground, thousands of feet beneath her and Miremel. All around them was the darkness of the night, and she could see very little of the terrain that they flew over, though she knew that the Empire's camp was there, a line of tents, defences, watchmen... She wished she was down there, where there were warm fires, friendly people, and a distinct lack of plotting to kill everyone who opposed a mad King.

Below them, Orrin's armies lurked in the darkness. She could sense them with her mind, and luckily the magicians knew not to be alarmed when it was either of the Riders that contacted them, so she could sense their location perfectly. But she was stopped from extending her mind towards the camp of the Empire by the precautionary orders against attempting in any way to warn the enemies of Surda or Orrin, and a magician could easily sense her touch. So, they merely flapped and waited.

From their great height, the dragons and Riders could see that dawn would be coming shortly. The sky to the east was lightening, yet on the ground it would still look almost entirely dark. Her guess as to the light level on the ground was confirmed by a simple glimpse into an undefended Surdan mind. A dozen or so minutes, she guessed, remained before the first rays of sunlight rose into the dark sky. Some time before then, they would dive, and attack the camp, despite the impenetrable dark that mere human eyes found impossible to see through, though Miremel had no trouble. For a second, Taiven felt like she would be much more useful as a dragon than a Rider in that situation, making Miremel laugh. The dragon's throaty, growling laugh lasted only a short peroid of time, soon fading to nothing, and Miremel made an explanatory comment.

_If you, little one, were the dragon, then I would be forced to ride you, and that, I think, would be awkward. Besides, you can see as a dragon at any time you want._Taiven let amusement and puzzlement flow across their link. How could she possibly see as a dragon?

_Let me show you!_ Miremel's mind enveloped her own, gently shifting it away, and Taiven, trusting her dragon, slipped into the peaceful mental state of meditation, allowing Miremel to easily do what she wanted. Her mind _moved_, travelling across the bond she shared with her partner, and she was calm, as her master had taught her, relaxing, letting herself sink into her surroundings, and when her head seemed to stop moving, she opened her eyes.

But they weren't her eyes.

And nor was her body her body.

Her vision was better than ever before, though it seemed tinted, but she could nonetheless see down to the camp, and see that the Surdans were close, and stationary, as if waiting for the attack signal. She could see the small, concentrated movements in the Empire camp that told her that they were aware of the Surdan forces. She could see that already a host of men on horse were moving around behind the right flank of the camp, and they were Empire men. She could see that they were unaware of the cavalry ahead of them, thousands strong, but they had guessed their position well, or been told by some magician. But she had not been told to report what activities she saw, so she bore silent witness to the events below.

She could smell the scents carried up by the air, scents of smoke and fear.

She could feel the wind rushing past from the downdrafts of Miremel's wings.

She could hear talk and tread of foot below, though the noises were faint, indistinct.

She could also hear the sound of Miremel's wingbeats, though they seemed strangely muted, for once, and when she realised what else she felt, they almost immediately stopped, as if shocked into silence by her own shock.

She felt Miremel's body.

She was in the body of a dragon. Controlling it.

A dragon which, as Taiven's mind stopped working from the sheer strangeness of it all, froze its muscles in shock, froze _her_ muscles in shock, and she began to sink downwards, wings locked, gliding, before, as Taiven began to regain some control over her new body, wobbling and tilting forwards. Taiven immediately hurled the wings back, feeling them as awkward extra appendages coming out of her back, and came to an abrupt and jolting halt in midair, almost vertical, and then accidentally overbalancing, if that was even possible in midair, and practically doing a backflip before beginning to plummet again. But a smooth, calm presence entered her mind, taking control of Miremel's body again, and controlled the great wings perfectly to simply level out and make the whole thing appear like a bunch of purposeful and organised manouevers. Then, they carried on flapping, merely maintaining altitude and staying in the same place.

_Little one, that was terrible flying, even for a novice! Ebrithil would be ashamed!_

_I wasn't expecting to be left in control! Where were you as I attempted to fly?_

_I simply took your place. And I must say, I did a much better job at riding than you did at flying._ Taiven sighed, exasparated, and Miremel loosened her hold on her mind, allowing her to drift back into her own body and continue the argument from there.

_You were prepared, it was your idea!_

_But you were the one who thought you'd be more useful as a dragon, so I showed you how bad you really were at it. It's really your fault for bringing up the subject of changing bodies in the first place._ Taiven sighed, again, abandoning the topic.

_Sunrise soon. Time to dive._

Miremel growled.

Taiven reached out to Murtgah and Thorn, sending them a simple message composed of emotions. Sorrow, pain, hate for Orrin, and unwillingness. They sent back acknowledgement. Words were unnecessary. The feelings among all four were remarkably similar. Anything more was excess, no comfort to the damned.

A slow spiral downwards brought time, but they all knew it would change nothing. When they reached a level slightly above the tents, a sense of finality spread through their mental connections, a sense of inevitable destruction. Without a single other thought from either dragon, both simultaneously opened their maws.

Flames shot out, painting a bright portrait of blood, pain, death, and carnage over the blank, clear canvas of the tents. Red fire lit the night, heralding death from itself and the arrival of others a great deal more likely to cause death. The dragons swept their heads around and moved over different areas of the camp, before shutting their mouths and roaring as loud as they could, just in case some Empire soldiers were not yet awake. Despite their forced alleigence, they could still do what they were not ordered against, and the more alert the soldiers, the more likely they were to kill more of the Surdans, and hopefully Orrin, who was fighting alongside his men for once, in the absence of a compenent general who could also lead.

Murtagh and Thorn swooped lower, and with a wave of his hand, Murtagh leapt off Thorn, to the ground below, to search out Jormundur and the other commanders. He rolled quickly, absorbing the impact, and Thorn landed a few moments after. The two began to stride through the camp, as Orrin had ordered, looking for the leaders, Murtagh first, Thorn following. A dozen badly-prepared soldiers rushed at the pair of them, but Murtagh held up a hand and spoke to them, illuminated by the blaze going on behind them. From the air, Taiven couldn't tell what he said, but they all nodded, slowly, before looking around and sprinting back to their tents or to the camp's defences.

Miremel rose upwards, catching an updraft, and Taiven finally found that she could fully apreciate how well her dragin controlled her movements. Though it was probably not the best time to notice it, the skill with which the brown dragon controlled her movements was precise and practiced, though it was hard to acknowledge the challenges of flying when dragons made it look so effortless and you hadn't attempted it yourself. Miremel radiated pride at her Rider's thoughts, but soon they both turned their attention to the task at hand.

Orrin's task of looking out for other Riders and dragons meant that they did not have to fight, which Taiven was grateful for, but it made her view of the battle, through images sent by Miremel, that little bit more daunting overall. Sure, she wasn't down there, but down there she would be able to convince herself that in other areas the fight was going well for the Empire, and they had a chance to win. But watching from above, she could not decieve herself.

The horsemen she had noticed earlier had charged and flanked the Empire's cavalry, pushing it against the defensive embankment. They seemed more organised than their opponents, a couple of organised regiments moving forwards and splitting the Surdans into three groups before beginning to close the gap between them, attempting to destroy one of the groups, but the Surdans had a great advantage of numbers, and were closing down all the Empire men they could with ease.

On the opposite flank, a similarly sized group of horsemen assaulted the boundaries of the camp. The defence was inside the walls this time, and on them; thousands of spearmen waited on that wall, their faces turned to the sight of the cavalry that were trying to scale the defences and kill the defenders, and their weapons turned that way as well. They held off the group well, though it was far larger than theirs, and Taiven noted from comparing the images that there were many more Empire men on that flank than on the other, meaning that the defence had been planned from the start. No wonder the other cavalry had been ready so fast. But whatever the spearmen did, more and more of them were falling to the spears of their enemies, and though they had men to replace those who fell, the Surdans still had more. From one memory, Taiven saw a horse fall over backwards when its rider was killed, and it tumbled down the hill, hitting a few Surdans and turning itself into a gruesome pile of blood and gore. It was a scene of carnage.

And at the front of the camp, the greatest battle raged. The tents that had been behind the embankments has all been moved away, as if it had been planned, and the majority of the Empire's army stood there, fighting visciously against the Surdans that surged inwards. The tents lay behind them, in a large pile, and a few men were removing more, to create space for more warriors to fight. The fighting itself went back and forth, but mostly back for the Empire, and mostly forth for the Surdans. It looked like Orrin, surrounded by his men, was encouraging them to press on, but at the sides their strength was waning. That was where the Empire was able, occasionally, to go forth rather than just back. But though they were having small success there, their centre was being pushed back. A man on horseback there, the same as Orrin, who was also mounted, attempted to rally the troops, and Taiven suspected that he was Jormundur, the former Varden commander during the war against Galbatorix, now the King, fighting Orrin. He was succeeding in slowing the advance of the Empire, though not enough. Orrin's guard penetrated them, the rest following, closing in on where Jormundur's own guard were arrayed around him.

Thorn's red hide would have sparkled if there was any sun, but it did not, and all the men fought in darkness. Taiven could only presume that Murtagh was with him, but the darkness and confusion made it hard for even Miremel's eyesight to tell one man from another. Thorn was wandering pointlessly around the camp, 'searching' for Jormundur, but as he had not been told where to search, Taiven guessed, he was able to evade his orders by searching areas such as the cook tents and the healing tents. But if Taiven was needed for anything, he would be too.

Miremel scanned the skies, as Taiven once again felt like she could hardly do anything without her dragon, before saying, _I see no sign of Rider or dragon for miles. We are, it seems, doomed to stay here like cowards and watch others win glory!_

_I would rather be dubbed a coward by the entire Empire, the elves, and the Rider order than win the glory of being Orrin's greatest servant.[_

The sun rose on them, though it had not yet lit up the ground below. Yet more proof, as Ebrithil had once told her, that the world was round, and the sun circled it. Why, if the world was flat, would it rise to her at a different time than it did to those on the surface? It made sense that it was round.

A very short while later, the sun reached the rest of the soldiers below, and for a second, as Taiven blinked in the light of dawn, so did everyone else, a moment of unity from two opposing forces.

Then, the fight began anew, and the cries of men and horse rose into the air again.

Taiven observed the battle, watching it progress worse and worse, or as Orrin must have thought, better and better. The fighters on the embankment, holding off the great numbers of horse, had been dealt heavy losses. There could be no doubt that eventually Surda's cavalry would overwhelm and destroy the defenders there, and soon, before progressing on to aid the King and the infantry in their central fight.

The fight including the kings was not going well either. Still, Orrin pushed, still, Jormundur was forced backwards, and still, men died around them, still, those remaining fought on. It was a boodbath, a field of gore and death, the Surdans having lost the greater proportion of their troops, but gained the most ground. The strong Surdan centre was advancing, but many of them were dying, and troops on the flanks were being pushed inwards by the Empire men in that area, breaking up and compressing their formation, and the flanks on a whole seemed to be in the Empire's favour. But the majority of the field was still looking like the Surdans would win.

The only small comfort Taiven could find in the fight below was that the fight between the cavalry groups was looking relatively hopeful. Two groups had been formed, one of the Empire, one of Surda, and around three hundred spearmen had left the embankments to assist the Empire troops, making the battle roughly even in terms of numbers, though Surda still had an advantage. It looked as if there, finally, the Empire had an chance. It would have little effect on the outcome of the battle on a whole, but it offered Taiven a tiny bit of comfort. Not all hope was lost.

Again, she gazed out over the plains to all sides, but the only thing that could be of any use to anyone was the city, Uru'baen, as she now called it. It towered over the plains, dark, forboding, and despairing, a vulture with its eyes on the dying prey. It sent a shiver down her spine.

Surveying the sky, there was no sight of dragons or Riders. Nothing was changing but the battlefield below, where the Surdans were winning in two places, and the Empire was engaged in a close fight in another, which to Taiven's view could go either way. The horsemen and spearmen were fighting well against the Surdans, and it seemed like they might just manage to win it. But Taiven could not tell, so she watched the fight play out.

The body of Imperial cavalry had been splitting the main group of Surdan cavalry in two, when it rounded on the group to the left, and tore at them with ease, the surprised forces falling back and being cut down. The spearmen were in a circular formation, surrounded by more Surdans, stabbing them quickly, but falling too. The Empire's main cavalry force turned now, much lessened, but with the group they had been fighting eliminated, and pushed against their remaining enemies. It was a close fight, both groups losing considerably, but when the spearmen managed to kill the last of their attackers, Taiven knew it was over. They took the Surdans out from the rear, and a mere hundred or so cavalry and fifty-odd spearmen lived from that battle. The Empire had a small victory, but the influence of the small group would surely change little.

Taiven sighed, just staring up at the sky. Even when one fight had gone their way, the Empire was doomed. Nothing but that would come of their resistance. She gazed into the cloudless, blue sky for several minutes, wondering why it was so clean and clear, but the earth below was marred by the blood of many thousands and the greed of the Surdans. Theirs was a world of inequality, and until greater cooperation was achieved, misfortune would be rained down upon them. Order was needed, people to take a stand and make firm decisions on how to avoid chaos. Whatever would happen, sooner or later, somehow, somewhere, something would be bound to go wrong, and the best thing that could happen then would be people to watch over the land and the lords, to solve the disputes.

_We need the Riders._ But there were still none in sight. There was just the plains, the fighting, and the city.

Even as Taiven turned her gaze to Uru'baen, there was a great, blinding flash of cyan light and an explosion shook the air.

* * *

What's this explosion above Ilirea? Next chapter will tell you!

So sorry for the delay, people, the computer's harddrive never regained its data and Inheritance Forums is still down, so eventually the long read-through-original-draft-copy-and-edit-out-errors process came into play, and hopefully the next few chapters should be up shortly after this one. So sorry for the wait, and thanks to Hiker Writer for the review that kicked me into gear again.

Hope you enjoy!


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter 52: A Risk I'm Willing to Take.

Eragon looked up from the now-blank mirror, and breathed deeply, as Oromis had taught him for meditation, to calm himself, before slowly replacing the mirror in the saddlebags and sitting straight in the saddle, debating to himself the wisdom of his choice. It could have dire consequences, that was for sure. He had no idea how big the explosion would be, let alone the energy loss.

_Little one, we should land, for two reasons; to consult with Arya and the Eldunari, and to cast the spell if they agree, which they must. There is no other way to save the Empire._

_Aye. Saphira?_

_Yes, little one?_

_I... I don't want to fight. I have killed too many already._ Saphira sent compassion and comfort over their link, and it was all they needed to say to one another. Obviously, they knew each other perfectly; each knew the other's true name, not to mention the strength of their bond. Eragon knew what Saphira thought, she knew what he thought, and they understood each other almost perfectly. _That_ was the power of their connection.

_Arya! We need to land, Roran contacted me!_ He detected shock, puzzlement, and a small amount of worry from their connection as he felt her mind, and she replied quickly.

_We shall land immediately, then._ Their minds remained linked, but he didn't yet show her what Roran had said and the decision he had made. Not yet. He would let them all know together.

Saphira swooped downwards, gliding, but with her wings tucked in closer to her body than normal, to increase her speed. Firnen did likewise, and they landed in a clearing not far from Gil'ead. With a slight sense of nostalgia, Eragon realised that it was the same clearing which he and Murtagh had stayed in while trying to contact the Varden spy in Gil'ead, and later when they had escaped from the prison there with Arya. The charred remnants of the campfire remained in the centre, as well as footprints and signs of disturbance all around; Galbatorix's troops under Durza had been on their heels. Back then, Eldunari were unknown, and Arya had been strapped to Saphira as Eragon and Murtagh rode Tornac and Snowfire. Now, all three of them had dragons that they rode instead, Snowfire was on a battlefield outside Ilirea, presumably with Roran, and hundreds of Eldunari hovered in a space which was not there behind Eragon's head. Yet even that many might not be enough. He would find out soon.

He reached out with his mind to all around him, Saphira, Arya, Firnen, and the Eldunari. They let him in, all of them, and he said, _These are dire circumstances, and I believe we only have one option if we are to do what is necessary for the future of Alagaesia, as is our duty. Our actions today shall change the fate of the world._ Then, he showed them his memory; Roran's scrying, the message, and the conclusion Eragon and Saphira had reached afterwards, followed by the words, _Should we take this dire risk, or risk the dire consequenses of not taking it?_

The Eldunari withdrew from his mind slightly, and Eragon detected a swarm of frenzied debate raging at the other end of the mental connection, though it was slightly masked by the fact that they had distanced themselves from him. Arya appeared shocked at the suggestion, but she seemed to see its good points as well, and Firnen was talking with Saphira. No-one responded for a time. Then, Arya spoke.

"I think that it will very likly kill us, but we have few alternatives. Certainly it is this or we simply allow Orrin to win. But think of the energy! Something as big as a quite large stone left me near collapse! Think of what this would cost!"

"But we have the Eldunari, if they agree, and that is far more than the reserves of a single elf. We may have a chance of doing this, if we all pool our strengths, and I add what I have stored in Aren and Brisingr over the years. We have to. We have no choice." She still seemed unsure, but she nodded.

"If the Eldunari agree, I shall too. I trust their judgement, and I trust you." He simply nodded back, a small smile on his face at the words, and waited for the bodiless dragons to come to a decision. The response came quite quickly from Umaroth.

_We feel like we may be able to do this, indeed, some find it likely. Yet others, old and wise, remind us of the tragedy of Eragon the First. This is not a widely known tale; the Riders of old disliked showing their shortcomings, or revealing too much of their strength, but the Riders and dragons alive at the time, such as Valdr and a few more, remember the tale well. Eragon and Bid'daum led the Riders, as you know. This was before humans were added into the Rider pact. They had, in fact, only just arrived in Alagaesia, bringing with them an unfortunate side effect that the Riders were forced to deal with in the years before Palancar's war against the elves, and the Riders by extension. This side effect, of course, was the Ra'zac._

_They came with their Lethrblaka, in hordes hundreds strong. Their strength, though not equal to that of an elf, allowed such numbers to kill warriors of almost any race with ease, and the Lethrblaka swarmed any dragon they met. Back then, Ilirea was still an elven city. The Ra'zac and Lethrblaka attacked it. A message for aid was sent to Vroengard, and Eragon recieved the scryed news with alarm. He mustered the energy of most of the Eldunari on Vroengard, including those that the wild dragons had previously left at Du Fells Nangoroth, which was many, over three or four hundred. He then cast the spell of transport, like you plan to, intending to appear over Ilirea and defeat the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka with Bid'daum. Bid'daum was massive, a giant among giants, and Eragon was confident that they could defeat them, along with help from the city itself._

_He was wrong. The spell went badly. The Eldunari that he had selected, which was not the full amount on Vroengard, were drained of all their energy. They lost the energy to speak, to think, the energy to create more energy, and they became no more than gems of many colours. If they were still with the Riders when Galbatorix had risen, he could never have stood against Vrael. As it was, a rash mistake with the transportation spell cost them everything. And that was not the full scope of the tragedy._

_Eragon the First had also been relying on energy from Bid'daum and himself. When they arrived over the city, which was beseiged from above by over a hundred Lethrblaka, the energy of both the Lead Rider and his dragon was at a dangerous low. Matters only got worse when the Lethrblaka attacked, though Bid'daum was many times larger than the largest of them. Despite the problems, and his lack of energy, Bid'daum slew over fifty by himself, and his Rider on his back killed ten more. But at that point, their wards were down, and their energy even lower than before. Lethrblaka began to take advantage. They tore at his wings, limiting his flying ability. They ripped out his claws, intentionally targeting each one, then the next, then the next. But he could still deliver blows from where his claws used to be that could break bones, and did break bones, and he bit and snapped and burned with ever-increasing fury. However, even he could not hold out forever. Eventually, he fell, ten Lethrblaka latched onto his neck and plunging in their foul beaks, and he took them with them as he fell to his death, pinning many to his body with his legs and neck, and his Rider could do nothing to halt the uncontrolled plummet to the ground. Bid'daum landed on his back, both breaking it and crushing his Rider, before bleeding to death, alone but for the bodies of the Lethrblaka. Despite their heroic deed, and their noble end, many of the Lethrblaka and Ra'zac lived on, and so began the Riders' great hunt for the fell beasts. Both Eragon and Bid'daum died, permanently; Bid'daum had not disgorged his Eldunari._

_However, despite that, on a whole we advise that you do go through with this plan and transport us and yourselves to Ilirea. Though past lessons must be remembered, the circumstances were different then to how they are now. Bid'daum was massive, a behemoth. Neither Saphira nor Firnen are half his size, nor even a quarter. However, they did have more Eldunari than we, and as we are unsure as to how many we cannot provide an accurate estimate for how much energy was required in proportion to ours, so we are unable to work out how much energy is needed for transporting dragons of your size. His energy, surely immense, also contributed to the spell, meaning that an even greater amount, which we cannot account for even in a vauge estimate, was used in the spell. However, after a large amount of debate, we have concluded that with the supplies of energy in Brisingr, Aren, and Tamerlien, we should be able to safely transport you to wherever you want, though preferably Ilirea. It_ is _where we are required._

Eragon's mouth fell open. He had never guessed as to the circumstances of the death of his namesake, one of the most powerful and influential figures in the history of Alagaesia, and to find out that Eragon the First had died as a result of trying to do what he would shortly be attempting to do himself, in exactlythe same place, was disturbing to say the least. He blinked several times, still stunned, before snapping out of it.

_So, you say we should try it?_ Impatience flowed unrestrained from Umaroth as he replied.

_Yes, that is what I said. Hurry up and cast the spell!_ Eragon hastily linked minds with everyone there again, giving Arya a worried glance, which she mirrored, before they climbed onto their dragons. Together, the two elves chanted the spell, focusing on the same destination, minds melded with each other and the dragons around them, and connected to their jewels, where they stored more energy, both spells at the same pace to form one single spell, combined, fuelled by the same sources, a melding of twin magics, and blue-green light emitted, mixing, forming cyan rays the colour of the sea, green and blue combined, and a shockwave rang out, then an explosion, and Eragon was blinded, and weak, and he could not open his eyes, and-

He opened them.

* * *

Cliffhanger! Sorry, couldn't help it! Have they survived? How weak are they? So that's what the explosion was last chapter!

Hope you liked the story about Eragon the First and Bid'daum! I figured it would have to be told sometime, and I thought I might as well dispell any thoughts on him and Bid'daum returning in a sequel or anything.

Next chapter up soon!


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter 53: Arrival.

Roran's group stayed outside the boundaries of the camp, where there was space for their force to manouever. They progressed around, towards the forefront of the camp, sounds of battle from that direction being a clear indicator of what was happening and where. Roran had decided to attack from the side, and then, after pushing the surprised Surdans back, to move his cavalry through the ranks of the other Empire men and lead the fight from the front alongside Jormundur. Hopefully, his arrival would strengthen the morale of the men around him, and they could push forwards and fight stronger than before. Then, the Empire might have a chance.

_I never would have thought during the war that one day I would be leading Imperial troops against the Surdans. How times change._

The men, his hundred or so cavalry, rode behind him and Horst. The old blacksmith had, luckily, survived the carnage with fewer injuries than most, and the two were reaching the front of the camp quickly. He had sent the spearmen that had assisted them to reinforce the soldiers on the other flank of the camp, in the hope that both good news from elsewhere and extra men would positively influence the soldiers on the opposite side, and allow them to eliminate, or at least kill most of, the Surdan cavalry that could do a great deal of damage to Jormundur's infantry if they got through the defences. Roran contemplated what Eragon had said. How could he get there so fast? Even with dragons, from before Gil'ead was a massive distance! How could Eragon fufill Roran's request for aid? Even the lead Rider, surely, could not manage to move from one place to another with such ease! And if it could, as Eragon had said, kill them all, then it probably wasn't even the safest idea anyway, and knowing Eragon, something would go wrong. Spectacularly wrong. It always did. Eragon killed Durza, but broke some kind of jewel and crippled himself. He convinced Murtagh to let him go, but lost his sword. He eliminated the Ra'zac, but it left him to run across the Empire alone. He killed Galbatorix, but Ilirea had been practically blown up. It always happened like that. Roran only hoped that Saphira and Arya would talk him out of it somehow. But, again, knowing his cousin, Eragon would not give up.

Roran came up to the side of the embankment, silently, his men behind him, looking at the stakes that barred their way. He waved a few of his men forwards, whispered orders, and they quietly moved closer to the stakes, dismounted, and began to pull them out of the embankment, eventually making enough space for twenty horses abreast to move through. They returned to their steeds, and Roran's muttered command of 'Twenty in each line, now!' got the forces into a five line formation, twenty in the first four and seventeen in the last. He, in the middle, slowly moved Arnet, the horse, forwards, enough so that he was able to see what was going on on the other side, but only his head would be in view. He surveyed the battlefield in horror.

In the centre, two groups of more organised men, one on either side, were throwing themselves at each other, each trying to break through, but the Surdans found it hard due to the quality of the Empire's fighting, and Jormundur's men could not, due to the sheer numbers of their enemies. While the skills that they had would allow them to kill or drive off all their attackers, they could not go on forever. The battle there was going Surda's way.

To either side of those troops, the fighting was slightly more even. As more Surdan troops were fighting in the centre, there were less around it, though they still outnumbered their enemies. That fact allowed the Empire's men to battle back well, and the fight was practically even.

On the furthest flanks, while the Surdans held as big a number advantage as they did in the centre, they lacked the confidence to go on and fight well. It was that confidence which the other troops obtained from the presence of their King, whom they could not see or hear, so they lost morale, their attacks slowed, their hearts were heavy, and the Empire was managing to push them back slightly, despite the inequality of numbers. It was on the flanks that Roran found himself, almost ready to lead his men, temporarily, into the fray, then to head towards Jormundur. But as he drew himself up, ready to yell a war-cry and charge the flanks of the massive battle, even beginning to raise his hammer, an explosion rang out, miles above his head, and all the fighting stopped, as the men looked up, including him, and gasped at what they saw.

Above Roran, almost directly above, was a brown dragon, which Roran recalled was called Miremel. It roared in surprise, though the roar was a lot less loud than the explosion, and gazed back to Uru'baen, where Roran's main attention was as well.

There, a green-blue flash of light illuminated the sky. It lingered for several seconds, before passing into nothingness,revealing two shapes in the sky, one emerald green, the other blue.

They were two massive dragons, glorious, sparkling in the sunlight. Their noble heads were limp, their tails drooped, and their wings were folded to their bodies. Roran could easily tell which dragons they were, and Saphira and Firnen, riders on their backs, began to fall, spiralling downwards towards the unforgiving ground.

* * *

Eragon's mind whirled confusedly, and he felt weaker than he had for a long time, since, in fact, before Galbatorix had been cast down. He blinked several times, trying to make sense of the suddenly speeding up, spinning, world, and the force, ever increasing, with which the cold winds slapped his face, stinging his eyes, forcing his hair in every direction. He felt an insect of some sort crash into him. Then, there was a roar, and the chaos was reduced quickly, before coming to an abrupt halt, along with his falling sensation.

He was on Saphira's back, less than a mile above the plains just outside the city of Ilirea. His legs were still strapped onto the saddle. Brisingr was on his belt, Aren on his hand, and both were all but entirely drained of energy. Fearful, he reached out to the Eldunari, and was relieved to find them all conscious. The spell had taken equal proportions of energy from all its sources, leaving every Eldunari with some remnant of their former strength, enough to stay alive. Saphira herself was flailing at the air, trying to stay aloft, and Eragon hastily channeled the remaining energy from both Aren and Brisingr into her, steadying her flight considerably. He could sense Arya, to his right, doing the same to Firnen. He seemd considerably more rejuvenated than Saphira, and Eragon guessed that Arya had had some of the elves pour energy into Tamerlien's emerald regularly, as Oromis and Glaedr had done with the gem in Naegling.

As the strength had been taken proportionatly, elder Eldunari such as Valdr, Umaroth, and one formerly of Galbatorix's collection, Yleska, who Eragon had spoken with a few times and found to be a very wise dam, still had energy to spare and give. Umaroth said,_ Take the strength you need, for you do more than us with it._ The Eldunari with enough power to do so pooled their resources, and Saphira and Eragon were both given a jolt of energy, enough to keep them going. Eragon channeled some into Arya too, and she smiled at him from her dragon's back.

A bit of light entered Eragon's heart as she smiled, and he smiled back at her.

Then, Valdr entered Eragon's mind, as he still had enough energy to do so, and Arya, Firnen, and Saphira's minds as well, projecting an image into each one; _three stone pillars, leaning against each other, one marble, smooth, the other two grey and rugged, battered, simple rock, the focus on one of the more worn pillars more than the others. Then, a darkness came in from the side, hitting them; one of them fell, the marble one, and the remaining two wobbled, weakening, support lost, but they stayed upright. The darkness remained, however, its evil not yet complete. It smashed into the two remaining, and the one which the focus was not on collapsed too. The remaining one rocked from side to side, and as it did so, a light washed the darkness away, leaving the last pillar of the trio alone. Yet even then, undisturbed, as it began to balance out, it collapsed to the side, falling onto the remains of the other two, and the pile of rock crumbled to dust._ Valdr sent an impression of overwhelming sadness, then exited their minds, offering no explanation. Eragon couldn't understand the message, but knew that he would remember it, and that it had importance of some sort. What sort, he knew not.

He glanced around, berating himself for ignoring the surroundings. They were hovering in midair, somewhere on the right flank of the Empire's camp, where Surdans and Imperials were engaged in battles of massive scale. Behind them, not far behind them, in fact, but far enough for them to be away from any possible harm, was Ilirea, or whatever it was called now. And ahead of them, in the air, Taiven and Miremel were charging towards the elder dragons and Riders, Miremel's mouth open, flames licking at the inside, Taiven with her sword raised above her head, pain easily discernible in their postures and eyes. Behind them, from the camp, Murtagh and Thorn likewise rose, the same distinctive traits that made it obvious that Taiven and Miremel were forced against them evident on them too, and they flew towards Eragon, Saphira, Arya, and Firnen as well. The four soared upwards, Saphira and Firnen flapping hard, to get above their opponents, but not their enemies. Enemies chose to be so. With opponents, that was not entirely necessary.

As Murtagh and Thorn rose to meet them, Taiven and Miremel attempted to do the same, but as they began to increase their altitude, a grey shape, unseen by them, launched itself off a hill behind them, gaining the momentum needed to keep itself going faster than the brown dragon and Rider. Eragon had a restricted view of the grey shape, as Miremel blocked his line of sight, but as distinctively shaped wings that could only be of one species rose into vision just behind Miremel, he realised that it was Laenar, and Dusan was on her back. They had obviously been waiting in ambush for either of the dragons with the empire to show up close enough to surprise them. It was a good plan, and it worked. With a roar of pain, Miremel whirled around, blood streaming from her side, as Laenar corkscrewed below her after the blow, avoiding any retaliation as Miremel's claws tore at the air above her, a hit from Laenar's tail landing on the foreleg even as it sliced. Thorn roared in anger, and Saphira and Firnen both instinctively dived downwards to defend Laenar and subdue Miremel. But they could not go through with the action, as Thorn continued to head their way, and the two pulled up before they would lose the altitude advantage, or be dived at themselves. The red dragon and his Rider came up to their level, stopping in front of them.

Neither dragon and Rider pair could go down and help Laenar now. They would expose themselves, and Thorn was the bigger threat to them. Allowing him to fight either Eragon and Saphira or Arya and Firnen could result in defeat for that pair, if Thorn had kept himself up to his previous standards, which he likely had. His muscles were strong, his size was in between that of Saphia and that of Firnen, and his flying, if anything, had improved. Eragon had noticed that as the red dragon had flown toward them.

A staring match ensued, as the three oldest living dragons in the world faced each other. Laenar and Miremel fought each other still, their Riders healing wounds and occasionally trading blows, but not often the latter. Miremel, it seemed, was avoiding direct conflict between the Riders, knowing that Taiven would not stand up to Dusan for very long, if at all, though the tactic, meant to protect her Rider, was forcing Miremel to expose herself to strikes that could be avoided, and therefore tiring her Rider more from healing her. Dusan and Laenar appeared to have the advantage, but the fight could go either way still.

Eragon continued to look at his half-brother, before sighing to himself, raising Brisingr, and yelling a cry of war, Saphira echoing and surpassing his yell a few seconds later, and their actions being replicated by the green dragon and Rider to their right. Murtagh raised his sword, and pointed it towards them, and Thorn surged forwards, towards the pair that he percieved as weaker, Arya and Firnen. Eragon and Saphira charged all the faster because of that, and Firnen too soared forwards, heading down slightly to gain momentum, before tilting himself upwards in a gliding motion, pumping his wings hard as he pulled out of the arc and raising his legs to avoid Thorn's jaws as he swooped nearly vertically straight in front of the red dragon, Thorn spouting flames that passed just behind Firnen's tail as he passed. Then, as Firnen looped backwards, Saphira reached Thorn, and the real fight began.

* * *

The moment Roran had seen the dragons steady themselves out, he roared a challenge, and led his men over the crest of the embankment. The men, ninety-nine of them counting Roran and Horst, picked up speed on the short downwards slope on the other side, and smashed into the flank of the enemy, spears cutting through them with precision. The unexpected, unusual type of attack-Roran's men were the first cavalry to join the fight at that point, and they were all unused to attacks from a higher position by then-caught all the infantry by surprise, and Roran's men cut through most of them easily. Little resistance was offered as they swept through dozens of men and emerged into the masses of Imperial soldiers, who parted to let him through. The vast majority of his troops, over eighty, had survived, and the Surdans' flank was weakened, confused, and demoralised. The Empire's men were able to push forwards a great deal into their midst, gaining ground, and killing a lot of the shocked soldiers.

Roran's troop moved in amongst their fellow Imperial soldiers, passing through the groups with few difficulties, apart from the odd Surdan that broke through the lines. Most of such men were easily dispatched, however, and progress continued as Roran and his men traversed the battlefield, heading directly towards the main unit of Empire men, where undoubtedly Jormundur fought at their head.

As dragons roared overhead, Roran reaced the outer ring of the large unit dedicated to protecting Jormundur, and the men glanced them over, recognising their uniforms, his face, and his hammer, and they let him and his troops through their lines. There were still a number of people in Roran's way, but he rode through them all, heading for the small group of eleven horsemen in the centre of the formation; Jormundur and his ten Nighthawk gaurds. The leader raised a hand in greeting, Roran replying in kind.

"How went your flank? By the amount of men you have, badly." Roran nodded solemnly as he reached his King.

"Aye. The plan worked to a great extent; Solembum alerted me in the dead of night, we got into position, and we caught the Surdan cavalry by surprise on the right side of the camp at the perfect moment; when they were recoiling from their crash into the defences. We penetrated deep into them, and slew many. Yet more remained, and the fighting grew feircer as they responded and pushed back. It degenerated into a fight between several large groups from each army, surrounded by single soldiers or smaller groups, and eventually only two larger groups remained, one of the Empire, one of Surda, yet both were mere remnants of their former sizes, despite others having merged into them. All the remaining men divided into the major groups, who charged at each other. After a long fight, with assistance from spearmen who had been on the walls, we prevailed, with only seven-and-ninety men remaining from a force of thousands. We progressed along to here, and lost a few soldiers while making a surprise attack that broke through their ranks to the side. Also, I contacted Eragon, and as you can see, he has arrived safely, if overly spectacularly, and in I daresay a rather risky fashion." Roran gestured to the skies, where dragons fought one another, but kept his attention on the King in front of him and the men around them, as did Jormundur. It would not do to be staring at the heavens when they were in the middle of such a critical fight.

"Losses?"

"All they sent on their part. All but those you see here on ours, including, I think, almost all, if not all, of our magicians, and Arnet as well, my second-in-command. But my new second is right here beside me." Roran gestured to Horst, who bowed his head respectfully and shook the King's hand when Jormundur offered it to him.

"It's Horst, itn't it?" The old blacksmith nodded, almost shyly, surprised that Jormundur knew his name. Roran's friend moved his horse backwards slightly, though not too much, as soon as was excusable, and Roran began to speak again.

"How go things here?" Jormundur simply gestured across the field, where the Surdans were making yet another renewed effort to push forwards.

"Things go far more simply than they did for you, I assure you. You can tell the entire battle by merely sweeping your eyes over the mass of Surdans. They attacked, and are driving us back. What more is there to say?" Roran shook his head, indicating his answer.

"What would you have us do?" It was the obvious question from a soldier to his King, one which maybe Roran should have asked before then.

"The advantage of cavalry should not be overlooked, yet I cannot have you personally leading them forwards, as you will be safer and more useful here. Instead, if you wish, Horst shall lead them in a small charge towards the main enemy position, so that we may break up their defences slightly, and then have the chance for our men to push forwards, changing the momentum of the battle over to us."

"You have no need to ask me if I approve, Your Highness. I follow your orders without question. And even if I did not, I agree with the fact that this is necessary. Horst, do you agree?" Horst appeared surprised, then nodded.

"I shall do what I must, as shall the rest of the men. However, I must say that it is a sound plan." Jormundur nodded.

"Well, then. Gather up your men, and proceed through the ranks of the Empire soldiers before reaching the front line and charging into the Surdans. You do not have to go far; just far enough, and the infantry will support you from behind. Pull back behind them when you feel you have done enough, or you have lost too many. Do your utmost, Horst. Good luck." Roran watched silently as the blacksmith saluted, then turned to his troops, ordering them to follow him, and leading them towards their enemies.

* * *

Horst gazed ahead, determination welling up within him, yet also an overwhelming sense of inevitability and melancholy. He knew what would happen. He had to get the best he could for his children, his wife, his friends, and Alagaesia. He owed it to them. They had all given him good times to balance out the bad, a better and more respected job than most in his small village, and he had even met a king, who remembered his name! That was more than he ever could, or at least would, have asked to be given. He had to pay them all back the debt he owed them. He would do all he could to assist the end of Orrin and Surda. For Roran, Katrina, and Ismira. For Jormundur, his King. For Alagaesia, his country. For Baldor, Albriech, and Hope. For Elain... He would sacrifice himself.

Yes, it was drastic, yes, it was not entirely necessary; yet it was. He had to do all he could. If he weakened and shook the Surdans enough, Roran, Jormundur, and the Empire soldiers would have a greater chance of victory. So he would weaken and shake the Surdans as much as he could, not caring if it killed him. He would _care,_ of course, but he would look upon his death as a necessary evil to bring about greater good, and thus accept his fate.

Empire soldiers separated for him and his small company to pass, nodding respectfully, and he nodded back. Never would he have guessed people would do that for him, that he would be a leader. But leaders had to be prepared to do whatever was necessary, even sacrifice themselves, for the cause which they led.

Horst was ready to fight.

Horst was ready to die.

Horst was ready to be a leader.

He led the men on, reaching the start of the fighting warriors. Empire men separated into two groups, clearing them a path, and Horst charged down the middle, his cavalry behind, and slammed into the Surdan lines, ready to force his way through them as far as he could whilst the Surdans moved in his direction, attacking the Empire men as they separated, before recoiling at the sight of Horst and his men charging. But they had no time to react further, as those which they had just noticed slammed into them.

Horst slashed left and right and down, taking advantage of his higher position to kill all the soldiers in his path. His men did likewise behind him, and they plunged onwards in a tight group, into the enemy ranks. They fought hard, but so did their enemies, and many of them were beginning to fall. But Horst continued the charge, and they followed him. If he was following orders entirely he would have got his men out of that mess by now. But he didn't even try to. He headed directly into the centre of the troops, Imperial men following and pressing inwards through the gap his horsemen had created, guarding their rear, but soon, they fell behind, though they still managed to carry on penetrating the confused troops of Surda, advancing like they had not yet had the chance to this battle. Horst continued into the chaotic fray, his men falling ever faster, yet falling in glory. They would not give up.

A group of thirteen men on horse, surrounded by bigger, stronger, more experienced soldiers, came into view ahead, and Horst could tell it was Orrin, the traitor, and a unit of men set to guard him. If he could weaken them, the chances of the others would be much improved. His vision centred on the group and the people between him and it; not many. By then, he had around twenty, or less, men remaining, but they fought on regardless. Almost blind with rage, Horst simply cut his way through all he could, finally breaking into a bit of space, by then only one or two men by his side, the rest fallen so soon, and he was met by a great war-axe smashing through the head of his horse, a mare which he had raised from a foal, before the axe swung up and into the man to his right, and a sword from behind taking the life of the other. Horst tumbled off the horse, opening his eyes on the floor and gazing up to see which of his enemies would kill him.

A large man, bloodied axe in his hands, was dismounting his horse. Horst was in a circle of space around the thirteen horsemen he had been heading for, counting the man who had now dismounted. Soldiers stared at him from the sidelines, curious as to who he was, and how he had managed to reach so far in. One of the men on horseback wore a crown. Horst staggered to his feet, wondering what he could do now, and why he wasn't dead yet. The other man raised his axe, and Horst hefted his sword in preparation. But first, Orrin spoke.

"Well done, my good man. It's Horst, correct? Roran or Eragon or one of those other blockheads mentioned something. Congratulations on succeeding to reach my inner guard. This, however, is as far as you'll get. Hugran, finish him off." The large man with the axe nodded, moving forwards. Horst fell into a stance.

Hugran moved with strength, with confidence, with a grin on his face and his axe up over his shoulder. Horst himself was more wary. His sword in front, he circled around, trying to avoid the man for as long as he could. But Hugran was, it seemed, impatient, and the man swung his axe up, bringing it down at Horst's head. Horst simply sidestepped and retreated a couple of steps as the man pulled the axe out of the mud. Maybe the soldier wasn't as good as Horst had thought. He had left himself entirely exposed as he lifted the axe up again. Next time, Horst would take advantage of that.

Hugran went in for the same attack again, and this time, Horst sidestepped and stepped forwards next to the shaft of the axe, his sword already coming down towards Hugran's head as he did so. But, bizzarely, the man grinned as Horst attacked, already having removed his right hand from the grip on the axe, and in fact, the hand was down by his side, even more useless than the heavy axe the man tried to lift with his weaker left hand.

Or so he thought.

Hugran's arm rose from his side, fast, bringing with it a small, light hatchet that had obviously been on the man's belt and smashing the sharpened blade into Horst's sword arm. The blacksmith cried out in pain, backing away. It had all been a ploy. _Of course_ it had been a ploy. One of Orrin's personal guard would not be incompetent enough to make the same attack, one which exposed him no less, twice in a row, at least not without reason. And Horst had fallen straight into the trap. Laughter rose around him at the expression on his face. And then it all became worse.

With only his left hand, Hugran, with an effort, raised his heavy two-handed axe. He replaced the hatchet in his belt, now with blood adorning its blade, and hefted the sword once more. No messing about this time. Hugran charged at Horst, who rose the shield on his left arm to block the heavy swing in an attempt to defend himself.

The attack bounced off, but broke the shield, and Horst's arm with it. The blacksmith dropped his sword, still held in his right hand, and disentangled the shield from his arm. Gazing into the clear skies above his head, as the dragons had carried their fight elsewhere, a small tear escaped his eyes.

"Elain," he whispered, before Hugran's massive axe crashed through his skull.

* * *

Dudes! Feel so bad for doing that to Horst! He was like the coolest guy! Sorry if he was a bit OOC. But hey, don't you hate Hugran now? I like his fighting style-One massive axe and one tiny one!-but he isn't the nicest guy, is he? And he is kind of vindictive.

Sorry it ended here. Next chapter will have more of the dragons, promise!

What was Valdr's message, earlier in the chapter; the thing about the pillars? Could it mean something? What do the pillars represent? Have a guess!

Next chapter should be up soon, but I might not get to upload more than just that... I'll do as many chapters as I can!


	54. Chapter 54

Chapter 54: Fights Airbourne

Saphira crashed into Thorn's side, hard. He roared, kicked her with four legs, strongly, and spun away, flicking her head with his tail as he did so. It was a simple, instinctive move, which Saphira had only seen before in not-bonded-but-wild-dragons, and Thorn looked smug at what he had done. He should have simply used the moves Shruikan had taught him so long ago. That was why Rider dragons did not simply rely on natural-primal-instinct. It left them exposed, and it was easily predictable what the other dragon would do. As Thorn flapped off, Saphira swooped down below him, knowing that it would catch him by surprise, and Firnen, a second later, crashed down on the red dragon from above as Thorn glanced to the side.

Firnen clawed deeply into Thorn's front leg, and his neck, making the dragon roar in pain. Thorn smashed him out of the way, then spun, looking for Sapira behind him. She, unknown to him, was below, and she raced upwards to grab at him. She managed to get a good grip around his hind legs with her forelegs, and she bit his tail, hard. He roared, and as Firnen came around to attack his side, he twisted, moving Saphira into Firnen's path. The green dragon simply rose over Saphira's tail, turning towards where she had started from before Thorn spun, but as Thorn couldn't see him entirely, the red dragon spun straight into his green adversary and got a large scratch down his flank. Firnen lashed out and caught the edge of one of Thorn's wing membranes, which sprayed bright red blood over Saphira's blue scales.

She snorted in displeasure, knowing that she would have to wash off after the battle.

Thorn sprayed Firnen with fire, forcing the dragon to go higher, and out of the range of the flames, despite his wards, which did protect him, though Saphira knew that Eragon's move-immediately-spell had lost a lot of the energy that would otherwise be used in the wards, and exposing himself to the fire for longer than necessary would do more harm than good. Thorn dived, fast, to get away, but he was slowed, as Saphira still had a grip on him. She remembered the flying and battle tactics she'd taught Firnen, and used one of the quick messages, through body language, that were used to signify the move that they would do.

A simple two flicks of her tail, up then down, and a flick of his own, to the right, symbolised that he understood. She released Thorn, who was struggling like a deer in her claws, before spinning and diving down. He hovered for a second, surprised, then began to dive down at her, but he had forgotten Firnen, who was coming at him from above.

The green dragon gripped the shoulders of the red, and Arya quickly unstrapped herself from the saddle and slid down Firnen's side onto Thorn, landing just behind Murtagh and striking at him with Tamerlien. He made an awkward block whilst leaning backwards, forced to do so to keep her in vision, and then Saphira flipped over, back facing the ground, claws outstretched, catching the red dragon between her and her mate. She roared in triumph, as did Firnen, and Thorn roared in anger.

The trio of dragons spiralled downwards, Thorn attempting to wriggle out of their grips, and Arya, having jumped onto his back, blocked Murtagh's sword quickly and grabbed the saddle, in order to stay on, before lashing out a leg and sending Zar'roc flying. Saphira arched her neck out of the path of the falling sword, and Zar'roc plummeted down to embed itself in the dirt somewhere below them, on the plains. Murtagh panicked, and Saphira felt him reach out with his mind to Thorn, but before they could attack his mind, the contact between the Rider and dragon was withdrawn. Murtagh reached for a dagger in his shoe, but before he could properly use it, Arya, still holding onto the side of the saddle, flicked it out of his hand with her sword. But before she could put it to Murtagh's neck and tell him to stop, Thorn beat his wings powerfully, and, as both Saphira and Firnen were not expecting it to happen, it surprised them enough to allow him to flip all three dragons backwards. Arya was thrown off Thorn, unable to get her sword to Murtagh, and Saphira, who had quickly broke off from clawing at Thorn's underside when the red dragon had flipped them, spun sharply, angling downwards. Eragon managed to stretch out his arm far enough to grab hers, and she slammed into Saphira's scales, winded, but no longer falling. Eragon pulled her up, and she nearly pulled his arm out of his socket as she did likewise, before reaching Saphira's saddle and sitting behind Eragon, an arm around him.

Saphira headed back towards where the two males were battling the moment Arya was as secure as possible, looking on for a few seconds as Firnen lost the grip he had held on Thorn for most of the fight, not even relinquishing it when his Rider fell, though that was probably because he had seen that Saphira was getting her. The two had a great deal of trust in each other, enough for Firnen to allow Saphira to save his Rider rather than himself, which was a rare thing, even in times of old. Saphira allowed herself a bit of joy and pride. She had made a good choice of mate, even when he had been so young.

Thorn saw her, with both Riders on her back, and even from where she was she heard Murtagh swear from his back. The red dragon made a short dive, claws outstretched, towards Firnen's head, and when the green dragon spun away and downwards, angling towards Saphira, Thorn turned in the air and swept towards Ilirea. He managed to obtain a good lead on them, as Firnen had to hover beneath Saphira to let Arya jump back onto her own dragon. Saphira felt a small tinge of sadness from Eragon when she left him alone on the saddle, but it was soon swept away as both Saphira and Firnen gave chase, following Thorn towards Ilirea, though the red dragon was almost there already. That said, it was not too great a distance to the city anyway, and Saphira and Firnen, both being lighter, smaller dragons than Thorn, were catching up. But, Saphira noted with some pleasure, she was still the faster of the two.

Murtagh, in the distance, could be seen to jump off Thorn as they reached the top of the castle in Ilirea. He grabbed something, which Saphira's eyes could not quite make out, yet it seemed familiar, a memory of a pain in her chest and something to do with the giant, mad Shruikan springing to mind, but she recalled nothing more than that of the strange object. Thorn swooped lower, to below where Murtagh was, and Murtagh leapt down onto his back. The pair rose again, over the city, then, they seemed to come to a decision, and as the two other dragons hurried towards him, they began to dive, lower, towards the city walls, though Thorn appeared to be slowing himself, or so it seemed to Saphira. Deciding that it didn't matter where they were in relation to Thorn as long as they reached the red dragon-they would defeat him anyway, with him outnumbered-she simply dived, at full speed, towards the walls, where Thorn was headed, Firnen copying her actions beside her.

Thorn glanced up at them, releasing an almost sad roar, a half-hearted attempt, but they just sped up more, they were nearly level with him now, plummeting downwards towards the wall of Ilirea. Eragon, on her back, cried out as he spotted something; Saphira did not need to ask what, for a glance at the object Murtagh held revealed that it was a Dauthdaert, a golden one. Saphira saw the golden aura of magic around it, the sharpened tip which could penetrate all wards, the savage barb to rip and tear at the flesh of dragons, like Nirnen, the Orchid, and the first Dauthdaert she had seen had done when it plunged into her ribcage. She shuddered subconsciously, let fly a jet of fire, and then Thorn flared his wings quickly, stopping in mid-air, and Saphira, who should have expected such a manoeuver, but was unprepared due to her distraction, hurtled on, levelling herself and coming to a halt some distance from the city walls, but on their level. However, she didn't look at her surroundings. She focused on the red dragon, now above her, and the green, who had stopped at her side, and it was only Eragon's yell and mental prod that alerted her to the danger.

Arranged along the walls, gates, and several larger buildings, were almost a hundred ballistae. With their wards weakened, the Riders would have no chance of defending themselves from where they were; sitting targets. Already most of the weapons had been aimed at them. And Saphira knew that Eragon suspected something about the men who stood near some of the ballistae. She quickly brushed their minds, finding them shielded. _Magicians!_ Somthing was definitely going to go badly. And it seemed like Thorn's retreat had been planned beforehand, and a trap set. She should have asked herself questions, like _Why was he running?_ and _Did they plan to retreat and get the Dauthdaert beforehand? Could they plan to ambush us?_ But, of course, she had rushed in, taking Firnen with her.

She heard a sad, yet determined roar from Thorn, and the red dragon hurtled downwards, even as Saphira protectively flapped forwards in front of her mate, despite his growl of protest. She would take what came for him, no matter his strength. She was the elder dragon, the lead dragon, and she would protect him if she chose to do so. Saphira looked at the ballistae, even as a man yelled the order to fire and the javelins were released, and she prepared to paint the air with her flames and let out her loudest roar, before a red blur passed before her eyes and she blinked, shocked.

* * *

Dusan noticed the older Riders' conflict take them elsewhere, but he focused on healing his dragon's wounds. Laenar was swift, like an elf, but because of her speedy slashes her blows were glancing, and not as strong as Miremel's attacks, which sank deep into Laenar's misty grey scales. Though Laenar still managed to get more blows in, many more, Miremel's fewer successful strikes caused more damage. As Laenar had come closer than usual to try to grab or strike the brown dragon's neck, Miremel's two forelegs had sunk deep into her belly, and Dusan was expending a lot of energy to heal the wound, which was a dangerous one. As he did so, Laenar had been flying evasively, but she turned back towards Miremel the moment the wound was properly healed and slashed her across the snout. The brown dragon lunged forwards, with blood on her claws and misery in her eyes, but the strike missed as Laenar folded her wings and dropped lower for a second.

Dusan gripped the spike on his dragon's back hard as she extended her wings again, caught a strong gust of wind, and clashed powerfully with Miremel as each dragon grasped the front claws of the other with their own. Though Miremel shook Laenar around strongly, Laenar refused to let go, blinding Miremel with a burst of fire. The brown dragon, disorientated, was slow to react as Laenar released her hold on her legs, flapped higher, grabbed Miremel around the shoulder and reached her jaws around her neck, holding her prisoner.

When the brown dragon recovered, she immediately froze in place, but Taiven did not. The other Rider, to Dusan's surprise, lunged at him with Deloi. Dusan, who had kept Rakr down low for most of the battle, to avoid possible accidents, almost jumped in surprise at the attack, but he still managed to bring up his sword to block it. Miremel took advantage of the slight surprise that Laenar had felt through their link and got her head out of the misty dragon's grip. Though she could not escape Laenar's grip, and the awkward position of Laenar meant that she could not get good leverage with any of her legs to push her off, the two dragons, locked in place, snapped at each other, their necks a couple of striking serpants as they dodged and bit, as their Riders...

Dusan quickly deflected another blow from Taiven, having been caught by surprise again. Rakr came down in a slice, but she had already leant to her right, allowing it to glance off her shield. She was at a slight advantage there, as his only weapon was his sword, and he had to use it for defence as well. Also, she was wearing armour, and he had declined the offer of such gear, with the argument that it would slow him down, and he was faster than any human anyway, so she was altogether more defended than him.

As Dusan went in for another attack, depite his unwillingness to hurt his friend and fellow Rider, he could tell that Miremel was struggling harder than before to get Laenar off, but the grey dragon held on grimly. When Taiven blocked the simple strike, making her recoil back in her saddle, Dusan took a moment to wonder whether, without his healing, Laenar might already have lost. She had taken quite a beating, but she still growled loudly at the suggestion.

_Dusan, normally I would not fight this close-up, and I would dodge more, so I would recieve a lot less injuries, but I know that I have to get this finished as soon as possible, meaning I have to try to do more damage and, like now, get you into a position where you can beat Taiven and finish this. Now concentrate!_ Laenar quickly left his mind, and he focused on the opponent in front of him. He lunged forwards, his sword sinking into her shield, and she gasped, but he could tell she wasn't wounded. Rakr had penetrated too high for that.

She retaliated with a high blow that looked like it was aimed for his head, and he raised his sword to block. The magnificently light, sharp blade seemed to do exactly as he wanted as soon as he thought it, or even before; flickering to the defence, striking back with precision. When Taiven's looping attack was dropped lower, searching out a gap in his defences, Dusan simply nudged Deloi to the side and cut upwards, his sword striking through the gauntlet on Taiven's sword arm, and Miremel redoubled her efforts as her Rider struggled to heal herself. Before Laenar could manage to get her teeth around the dragon's neck again, or Dusan could end his duel, the brown dragon slammed her tail into Laenar with a lot of force. Before the other dragon could do it again, Laenar released Miremel herself, rather than be further weakened by the strong blows from the tail.

As Laenar soared elegantly around the other dragon, twisting and turning to evade the attacks, Dusan considered other options._ I could immobilise them or attack them with magic... But Ebrithil said that a magician's duel should only be a last resort, and they may have more energy than us. If they stored energy... Or they simply have more within them._ Laenar's wounds had been extremely energy-sapping, and Dusan had been forced to absorb some of his dragon's energy as well to keep her flying. Now, the misty-grey dragon was reverting to her normal techniques, and Miremel was finding it harder to keep up. Laenar kept getting small hits on her opponent, but they were few.

_Not magic, then... I could jump onto Miremel's back and put my sword to Taiven's neck, but that's risky when there's only Laenar to catch me, and she could get held up... A mental attack could work! I should be able to defeat Taiven in a battle of the minds._ With that, Dusan readied himself for mental combat, and even as Laenar managed to draw a long claw down the side of Miremel's tail, began an attack on Taiven's mind.

It was well-defended. Both of them had been trained by their masters in the art of mental combat, and Eragon had said that he regularly trained with Saphira to increase his mental prowess as much as possible, so Dusan was certain that all the Riders had been trained by the best, and as a result the other Rider had strong walls around her mind, though they were not her normal ones. Rather than simply focusing on a poem or a song, which he knew she often used as barriers, she appeared to be forging walls around her mind with the furnaces of hatred, despair her makeshift bellows to stoke the flames every hotter, and every new wave of rage and pain was directed towards one man. Orrin. And the more pain she felt within herself, the more the barriers grew, and were reinforced, and Dusan could do nothing about it. The sheer power of the mental block was more than Dusan could break through. He would not be able to win like that. His attack dented the barriers, but new ones were stoked up and reinforced tha place, protecting it well. Dusan and Laenar would have to rely on other methods. Laenar growled in annoyance, but redoubled her efforts to injure the other dragon.

Miremel had come into a position right ahead of Laenar, and was charging at her with full speed. Laenar echoed the movement and, when they were close enough, made as if to spin underneath the other dragon, claws outstretched to deal a blow to the belly. Miremel fell for the trick, heading lower, and Laenar instead continued to spin, but changing the direction, passing over the other dragon's head upside-down and allowing Dusan to give her a gash above one eye, hindering her vision. Laenar continued on over Miremel, still the wrong way up, allowing Dusan to trade a blow or two with Taiven whilst they were over the other pair. Dusan, disconcerted by the experience of weilding a sword whilst the blood was flowing to his head, had his blow blocked by an attempted attack from the other Rider, and only managed to give her a small gash in the side as they passed each other. But Laenar was not finished yet. Spinning, to get herself the right way up, her tail lashed out and hit Miremel's side like a metal club, even as her claws tore at the side of the brown dragon's tail. Her pride raced through the bond they shared.

_I've wanted to try that move for a while!_ The fury of battle was in Laenar now, burning its way through her, stemming from her ancient dragon instincts and cultured in the thrill of the fight. She spun around again, facing Miremel, and the other dragon appeared slightly unnerved by the anger radiating from Dusan's partner. Laenar released her fury in the form of a stream of fire, heading to the other pair, that deflected off wards but left Taiven gasping for breath on her dragon's back. Dusan could see that she was largely weakened, having just healed Miremel as well, and the dragon too was breathing heavily. Their exhaustion was evident; though Taiven sat straighter and tried to hide it, Dusan could tell easily. Miremel's tail sagged slightly, her wingbeats were less consistant, slowing then speeding up again, Taiven's sword tip was slipping gradually lower, out of a defensive position, and her shield was low already, by her side. Now, he figured, magic would have a chance, and he readied himself for a spell as his fellow Rider sat on her dragon, hovering ahead of him, his energy levels still being reasonably high, but then he stopped. Freezing and lowering a dragon in midair would be too much work, even if he was at his full energy level. They would have to drive Taiven and Miremel to the ground first, or lure them there. Laenar growled, frustrated with him. _I don't like having an objective in battle! I would rather simply fight until they fall out of the air!_ The anger was a side to Laenar's personality that Dusan had not seen before, and it unnerved him slightly, as she was normally a kind-hearted dragon, but the simple ancestral instinct took control now. What he saw was the traces of the rage of a mighty wild dragon of the past.

_But if they fall out of the air, Laenar, they die. And we do not want them dead, for they are our fellow Rider and dragon, and they do not fight willingly. Look at them! In the way they are, the difficulty will lie in_ not _driving them to the ground in submission!_ The dragon growled again, but grudgingly acknowledged his words. He could sense her internal question; whether to fly higher and attempt to force Miremel to flee downwards, tricky in any case, or to risk an attack from above and dive below the dragon, practically asking for an attack herself? Dusan could already tell which Laenar would do, however. Her pride would almost certainly not allow her to expose herself.

As he expected, Laenar's altitude quickly increased as the dragon beat the air with her mighty wings. Miremel tried to do the same, but her response was a lot slower, and she was barely going half as fast as Laenar was. Laenar, once she was a good distance above, dived down at Miremel. The brown dragon dodged to her right, but was harried from above as Laenar swooped, tearing at Miremel's fragile wing membranes. Miremel was forced to head lower and lower, pressured by Laenar's movements, trying to get past her, but Laenar was the more skilful flier, and Miremel's strength could not find a way through, and eventually she seemed to resign herself to the fact that she was going to be forced to land, and did so herself. Laenar landed too, a second later, and Dusan took a second to examine the two dragons for signs of tiredness. What he saw only increased his confidence in his idea.

Right from their landings he could tell there was a difference. Miremel had dropped to the ground heavily, relying on her legs to take the force and her belly almost brushing the ground. In comparison, Laenar had touched down lightly, her wings beating strongly to slow her descent, legs straight, and her own stomach was well off the dirt. Mud would make no difference to Miremel's scales, but Laenar was unwilling to get herself dirty. As Laenar now stood, upright, proud, and strong, there was a large difference between the two dragons still. Miremel's head and neck were held stiffly up, as if being forced to do so, rather than the graceful flexing motions that Laenar made as she moved, the two dragons circling each other. Her footsteps seemed to drag slightly as she moved, though not very much. The most telling sign, however, was her tail, which trailed behind the dragon like a large snake following its prey along a leafy forest trail.

Dusan chose to try a simple freezing spell to hold the two in place, and reached for the magic. With some caution, he said, "Letta!" expecting the other two to contest the spell, or have their wards blocked.

But Taiven and Miremel didn't even try to resist. They just let the spell hold them as Dusan and Laenar moved across the space between them, and even when Laenar took Miremel's head in her mouth again and Dusan jumped onto her back and put his sword to Taiven's throat. Even when he released the spell, having them as prisoners, there was no reaction. Dusan, confused, tilted his head to the side, and Laenar too showed feelings of not being able to comprehend what was going on to the other two. They simply stared at Taiven and Miremel, who looked back up at them, acceptance in their eyes.

However, soon, that changed to disbelief, and again the grey dragon and Rider could not fathom the reason. Taiven raised her head to the skies, gasping, and Miremel roared, the sound racing through the skies at great volume, despite a bit more pressure on her neck from Laenar. Dusan stepped closer, concern for his fellow Rider outweighing his caution, but he stopped in shock as she looked at him.

* * *

**What happened? Shock! Why? What's going on with Taiven and Miremel that Dusan and Laenar can't figure out?**

**I hope a few people have theories about Valdr's vision last chapter. If you want a recap, here it is:**

_Then, Valdr entered Eragon's mind, as he still had enough energy to do so, and Arya, Firnen, and Saphira's minds as well, projecting an image into each one; three stone pillars, leaning against each other, one marble, smooth, the other two grey and rugged, battered, simple rock, the focus on one of the more worn pillars more than the others. Then, a darkness came in from the side, hitting them; one of them fell, the marble one, and the remaining two wobbled, weakening, support lost, but they stayed upright. The darkness remained, however, its evil not yet complete. It smashed into the two remaining, and the one which the focus was not on collapsed too. The remaining one rocked from side to side, and as it did so, a light washed the darkness away, leaving the last pillar of the trio alone. Yet even then, undisturbed, as it began to balance out, it collapsed to the side, falling onto the remains of the other two, and the pile of rock crumbled to dust. Valdr sent an impression of overwhelming sadness, then exited their minds, offering no explanation. Eragon couldn't understand the message, but knew that he would remember it, and that it had importance of some sort. What sort, he knew not._

**Trust me, it is important! I'll explain it when the important thing comes to pass.**

**And the ballistae have been exposed to Firnen, Saphira, Eragon, and Arya! Dangerous! How will they survive as weak as they are? Find out next chapter! Or maybe the one afterwards... I don't know when that'll be, as I have to go out soon, but rest assured we are far closer to the end! Might get another update today, maybe tomorrow, and if not, well, two weeks of Easter Holidays, by which time I should be finished reposting!**

**I'm actually having a blast re-reading all these chapters, it's a whole lot of fun, and I'm glad to be back doing it! Hope you guys are glad I'm back too!**


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter 55: Confrontation.

Roran and Jormundur advanced with their men as the front lines surged forwards, through the space created by Horst's charge. Already they had penetrated the enemy ranks in greater numbers than ever before. Horst's duty was practically done, but Roran, with a clear view over the rest of the soldiers from the back of his horse, could see that they continued onwards and inwards, despite the fact that there were very few men still alive, and suddenly, Roran understood what Horst was doing.

Sacrificing himself.

Helpless, frustrated, angry at himself for not seing it in Horst's eyes as the man set off, Roran could only look on as more and more horsemen fell, forging the path ahead of them, and eventually one, which Roran recognised as Horst himself, with two other men by his side, reached a group of horsemen similar to that which guarded Jormundur, likely Orrin's guards. Roran knew that there was no hope for them, and, despairing, was forced to watch in silence, even as a large, brutal looking man smashed his axe into Horst's horse's skull and the old blacksmith fell to the ground. But he must have survived and stood up, because the other man dismounted, and the focus of many of the people surrounding the area turned to the group, which, fortunately, meant that the Empire soldiers could kill them easier. But they were still dying in large numbers, the ranks in front of Roran and Jormundur thinning fast, yet moving nearer and nearer to Orrin's guard, and Orrin himself.

Soon, Roran found himself nearly at the front line of the soldiers, as the Surdan forces cheered loudly in response to something he could not see. He closed his eyes for a second, knowing that the cheer heralded Horst's death. The Surdans turned back towards him, and he pulled back his horse slightly, coming level with Jormundur and the majority of the Nighthawks, so he could speak with the King.

"Stronghammer," Jormundur acknowledged, a grim expression on his face. Roran simply nodded in response, wearing a similar expression, though if possible grimmer. One of his oldest and closest friends had perished, on a charge that he himself had recognised as the right idea. Subduing his sorrow, he spoke to the old Varden leader.

"My King. I must ask, should we press on ourselves, or retreat back a bit, gaining a few more men ahead of us, yet failing to take full advantage of our position?"

Jormundur considered the question for a second, then said, "We push on. We must take all our chances while we can, and this is a chance. We are so close to Orrin and his inner guard, we cannot turn back now. I want you to know, Roran, that if I die now, you shall take command of this army, and, temporarily, the Empire, until someone else is chosen, or-who knows?-you may remain as King. That is all. Now, forwards!" The last part he shouted to the army, who roared in reply and flooded forwards. Roran stationed himself in front of the small group around Jormundur, determined to protect him.

They moved, behind their men, into the formation of the enemy. They were almost at the forefront of the attack as it moved deeper into the ranks of the Surdans, a spearheaded assault with momentum behind it. On the flanks of the battle, Jormundur's forces still succeeded in battling the enemies back. The parts between the core of the fight and the outskirts were roughly balanced, and in the centre was Roran and Jormundur's attack.

The troops that were at the head of the spearhead had reached a point where there were three rows of men between them and Orrin by the time one of the Surdans broke through and tried to attack Roran. Roran, who had been trotting forwards quite slowly, sped up, catching the man off-guard. A sword swing which was all too wild resulted in the Surdan nearly breaking his hand on Roran's shield, the sword having gone wide, and a neat blow to the head killed the man quickly. Roran yelled for his victory, determined to avenge Horst's death by killing all he could. Rage pulsated through him, and he raised his hammer in defiance of Orrin and his men.

Now, more Surdans were coming in from the sides, killing Empire men and blunting the attack slightly, but Jormundur's men were not to be denied. Despite their rapidly thinning numbers, they pushed on, until, when Jormundur himself only had a thin line of his soldiers ahead, Orrin was in the same position. About five of the Empire were able to get through to Orrin, opening a gap, but they were quickly slain by the guards, who Roran could tell were extrememly skilled. However, the gap they had provided allowed Roran, Jormundur, and the Nighthawks to ride through and confront Orrin. Men swelled around behind them, fighting the Surdans that even then did the same around Orrin, but they left a space, where Orrin and his twelve guards faced Jormundur, Roran, and their ten Nighthawks in silence.

There was a rather awkward pause, in which no one was quite sure what to say. Someone coughed. Roran almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation, but held his tounge.

Then, a guard of Orrin's shouted, "Who are you to come into the realm of Orrin the High King, armed and with an army ready for war, forcing us to sacrifice good and righteous men in order to defend what is ours?" Roran raised his voice in reply.

"Who are you to claim such things as true within the lands of King Jormundur, who merely comes in response to a treacherous betrayal by Surda and its King, when it was not he which initiated such a bloody and brutal conflict, but yourselves? You force us to sacrifice by your own actions. Again, I ask; Who are you to do this?"

At this, Orrin himself emerged from the ranks of his horsemen. He had a crown on his head, and he spoke proudly, regally, "I am the High King, Orrin, son of Larkin, master of Ilirea and all the lands from there to Surda. You are Stronghammer and Jormundur, and neither of you are King. Bow down before me so that I might spare your lives!" At that, Jormundur himself rode forwards.

"Even if it were possible to bow while on a horse, Orrin, I would not, for you are no King of mine, nor of any of my men, and we shall not bow our heads to such a tyrant, rather, we shall charge on towards you, and I pity any of you that obstruct our passage." He lowered his sword at the Surdan King, but as he did so, Orrin's guards moved in front of their leader, the man who had spoken before and wielded a battleaxe in front. With a shock, Roran realised that this was the man that had confronted Horst; glancing around, he saw the blacksmith's body off to the side, split through the skull, and he quickly looked back at the enemies ahead of him, trying to ignore his grief. Silently, he mirrored the movements of the men on the other side, riding in front of his King in a protective formation with the rest of the Nighthawks. Jormundur sighed, but otherwise made no comment.

Roran stared forwards, and locked eyes with Horst's killer. His hammer was high, and he was ready to fight the man with all he had. An evil smirk came across the face of the other man, and the man called out, "Soldiers of Surda, kill their horses!" A number of troops managed to struggle free of the Empire's men, and converged upon Jormundur's group, only aiming for the horses. It gave them an advantage over the infantry, making them easier to kill, both for the horsemen and the other Empire troops, but they were successful enough. More than half the horses were killed quickly, and Roran quickly dismounted his own rather than have it killed under him. A few other horsemen did likewise, and they slew the Surdan troops together, along with their other men, who then stood alongside the circle of men that had formed around Jormundur, who had remained mounted. Three of the Nighthawks had been killed, leaving Roran and Jormundur with seven guards and ten or so other men, who seemed unwilling to leave the defence of the King. Jormundur cried, "Forwards, kill them! Their own horses too!" All the men leapt forwards, the Nighthawks still staying back more to guard Jormundur, and the Surdan forces looked unsure for the first time. Their plan of taking the height advantage over their opponents had turned on them, and now they were outnumbered overall by the Imperial troops.

More Empire men converged from the sides, stabbing at Orrin's men, but they were met with solid resistance, as were the men charging from the front, those there even more so. The man with the axe had dismounted already, purposefully, and men were falling to him left and right. His swings smashed shields, battered swords out of hands, and then decapitated both the men he had done that to in a single blow, even as Roran watched, before practically cutting a man in half with a rising blow to the stomach. But some of the men got through. Eight of the horses were killed, and a couple of the riders as well, by the time the Nighthawks with Roran reached. But then, the Empire soldiers who had been attacking Orrin's guards were finished off, and the men faced each other on foot. Roran struck the first blow. It was blocked by the shaft of the large man's battleaxe, and the rest of their men then engaged.

Roran saw people trying to force their ways forwards, on both sides. Pirnus, the Nighthawk leader, swung his longsword mightily, trying to get through the ranks of their opponents. Others, to his left and his right, did likewise, but their enemies were strong too. Roran was forced to jump a good distance back to avoid the head of the axe as it whistled through the air in front of him, and the return slice was likewise avoided with dificulty. Roran jumped forwards then, hammer coming in from his right towards the man, but the man, who he now saw was probably the leader of the guards, unexpectedly lashed out at him with a smaller axe that had been concealed at his belt. It knocked his hammer off to the side, spinning him around, but Roran simply let himself spin, utilising the momentum to lash out with a kick to the shaft of the axe, near the blade, in the hope of disarming the leader and facing the man when he was using just the small hatchet. But Horst's killer merely hung on to the axe's handle, spinning like Roran had a couple of seconds previously and sweeping the larger axe at him again. It was ducked, as the blade had been rising towards his head, and Roran jabbed the end of his hammer into the man's belly, but he hardly seemed to feel it and stepped away, bringing his axe down heavily. Roran went to take advantage after dodging, but the hatchet shot out towards his face.

His shield caught the small weapon, which stuck fast in the wood. An idea struck him, and he wrenched his shield upwards and to the side, making the handle of the hatchet smack the man in the face. He yelled at Roran loudly in his anger, Roran himself smirking, and blocked Roran's attack by hitting Roran's shield to the side with the shaft of his battleaxe, so that Roran's hammer struck the hatchet still embedded in the wood. Neither broke, and the man took the oppurtunity to grab the hatchet and yank it out of the shield, putting it back in his belt and sweeping the lowered axe just above the floor to try to reduce Roran's movements by injuring his legs. Roran jumped over it, hammer flashing towards the man's head, but a twist meant that the blow glanced off his back and sent him stumbling back, though he quickly hefted his weapon again, holding it with two hands a way apart and blocking the blows that the advancing Roran rained down upon him. An irritated shout came from behind the man.

"Hugran, kill him! Now!" Roran didn't check to see if it was Orrin; the redoubled efforts of the man he now had a name for were enough to tell him that it was.

_Hugran._

The soldier stepped forwards to one of Roran's overhead blows, catching the hammer on the wood between his hands, and even as he did so he was already lashing out at Roran's right shin with his boot, which connected well and hurt a damn lot more than it should have. A glance down revealed Roran's blood covering a spike on the front of Hugran's shoe. Roran cursed vividly, forced onto the defensive again; _and_ with a limp to deal with now as well. Even the rest of the fight was going badly.

Three of the Nighthawks, along with Jormundur, fought five of Orrin's guards, and the guards were pushing the Empire men back. Pirnus was facing two men at once, the size of his sword being fully utilised as he did so, Jormundur had lost his horse and was fighting like a foot soldier, though he could not penetrate the defences of his opponent, and the remaining two Nighthawks were being steadily beaten back. Orrin hadn't even joined the fight, sitting on his horse and watching the whole thing as soldiers fought and died to all sides around him, leaving space for the two Kings to work out their personal problems, alongside their right-hand-men.

Speaking of right-hand-men...

Roran retreated from Hugran's onslaught, dodging whenever he could, and avoiding blocking with his shield, knowing that it would likely smash. In fact, it would be pretty useless against all but the hatchet, but he wasn't going to leave himself exposed to the thing which would strike him the moment he got past Hugran's guard. If he could get rid of the hatchet...

Roran dodged a powerful diagonal blow intended to decapitate him, and lead forwards with his shield, inviting a blow, at the same time slamming his hammer onto the shaft of the battleaxe and driving it further into the ground than it had already sunk. The leader of the guards suddenly wasn't quite so confident, hurriedly wrenching at the axe, loosening it, with his right hand, drawing the hatchet from his belt with the other and lashing out with a powerful, yet hurried, backhanded blow that hit the shield hard, jolting Roran away, but leaving the hatchet firmly embedded in the wood. Roran shrugged off the shield, knowing that it would be useless against the battleaxe anyway, and that was without the extra weight and awkwardness of the hatchet sticking out of it. A quick glance analysed the state of his companions.

Jormundur still fought, as did Pirnus, but they were the only ones, faced with four Surdans. They were almost entirely on the defensive, and every blow they did attempt was blocked anyway, well, almost every.

Pirnus blocked two swords at once, whilst ducking under another, before releasing a powerful, sweeping blow that took off a man's leg with ease. He was immediately back on the defensive again, however, as the man collapsed to the floor, and was if anything even more hard-pressed than before as the Surdans put even more effort in.

"So, Stronghammer now uses nothing but his mighty hammer? No extra defences, you throw away your shield? Do you think you can defeat me because you're holding less weight?" Hugran's taunting only angered Roran further against the killer of his friend.

"No, I _know_ I can defeat you because I'm _better_ than you!" Hugran sneered in contempt, angry, Roran mirroring the expression, and he re-engaged with his foe. Roran got in the first swing, but Hugran quickly blocked, wrenching the hammer to the side, stepping forwards, and the slice he gave was only narrowly dodged. Roran attempted to take advantage of the opening made by the heavy power of the battleaxe and its momentum, which had carried it well past him, but instead of utilising the hatchet, which Hugran could no longer do, he rolled to the side and brought the axe between them again, changing his tactic in the absense of his second weapon. A short, sharp hack at Roran's head followed, which Roran blocked with the shaft of his hammer, held in two hands, though he made sure that wood met wood, so that the sharp blade would not cut through his famous weapon, despite the protection Eragon had given it. The wards hadn't worked with the sword Eragon had used, Roran had heard, and he didn't want to push his luck. The following blows he blocked in the same way, before attempting to step in and drive the sharp end of the hammer into Hugran's side.

The man, Horst's killer, simply shoved both Roran and his hammer away, the head of the battleaxe luckily being behind him at that time, so it was the wood that sent him to the ground when his injured leg practically collapsed. He rolled, away from the axe blade which landed right where his head would have been, and stumbled to his feet, raising his hammer above his head in anticipation of a downwards slice.

No downwards slice came.

Hugran had predicted the movement, and the moment the hammer was over his head, it was suddenly a _lot_ further over his head than he intended and Hugran was a _lot_ more happy than Roran wanted him to be in the circumstances. Hugran's powerful uppercut had torn the weapon from his hands with ease, sending the legendary hammer soaring behind its weilder, who was suddenly a lot less confident. He hadn't managed to scratch the man, even when he had him on the defensive, and now he had lost his hammer. Pirnus and Jormundur were still backing away, the men converging on them quickly, and Orrin was still both mounted and fresh. All three of the Empire men still standing were exhausted, Roran especially, as he had been fighting before that day. And it didn't look like he'd be fighting for much longer. Hugran still loomed over him, axe held high and triumphant. Roran prepared for the inevitable death blow, knowing that he could not bring himself to give the vile man in front of him the satisfaction of seing him running. Unarmed, a Surdan soldier would just kill him anyway in the confusion. Better to die where people could see him. Save them the trouble of searching an entire battlefield for his corpse, if they even survived.

_Katrina, Ismira..._

Hugran steped forwards towards the defenceless Roran, and sent a kick into his stomach, the point on his right boot, still bloody from his earlier kick, tearing a long and ragged gash. Roran doubled over, and a spinning, left-footed kick slammed into the side of his ribcage. No bones were broken, his armour cushioning the blow mostly, but still Roran fell to the floor. The axe was raised for a final blow, then began to come down as fear flashed through Roran's mind.

* * *

Cliffie!

...For about three seconds I had you wondering there, didn't I? xD

* * *

A thin, sharp blade slipped into the path of the axe, then it twisted to the side and the warrior behind it did the same, moving the blade away to slam to Roran's right, and at the same time the opposite end of the bladed weapon, where there was another blade, the two separated by a wooden shaft, cut through Hugran's armour quite easily and gave him a diagonal gash across his chest, making him back away quickly. Roran belatedly gasped in shock, and the mad, curly-haired herbalist garbed in strange armour sighed down at him, before almost absent-mindedly flicking a heavy strike over her head with as little as a twitch of her strange staff with blades. Hugran retreated from her, looking a little scared.

"How did you find me? You shouldn't have been able to. You shouldn't!" Hugran was almost screaming by the end, terror on his face.

"I have my sources," Angela replied calmly. "However, they did say that you would be in Belatona. What they didn't say was that you brought an army, and that, unlike you, actually managed to cause a few problems to me. For that, I applaud you, even though it wasn't your doing at all, now was it? At best, you just went along for the ride." She deflected the shaft of his weapon up, stepped forwards, twisted, and slammed the other side of her weapon onto the axe head, underneath the blade, tearing it out of his hands. Before he could even begin to look surprised, she had spun the weapon again, the tip of a blade at Hugran's neck. She questioned him then, the large man almost panicking as the short, funny woman held a blade to his throat.

"So, I take it you got rid of that donkey? A good idea, that, threw me off the track for years. One of your only intelligent moments, if I do say so. It was rather distinctive. And you used it, didn't you? The crystal you cheated off me. You used it, which is why you're now Orrin's head magician. But even with assistance you weren't head until the last one died! That truly is pathetic. You always were weak, but I always though something like that would increase your capabilities a little, right? Wrong, it seems. Never mind, I'll get it back now anyway." With a short laugh, Angela twirled her blade, and it beheaded the man as quick as thought.

The strange herbalist quickly searched the corpse, withdrawing a blue crystal shard which fit perfectly in her palm from a compartment in the man's shoe. Roran winced, seing the blood-covered spikes on the tips. He struggled to get upright, glancing to Angela for help. She sighed, then offered her hand and hoisted him up again. But she kept the crystal safe in her other hand, Roran noticed. He nodded to it, inquisitively.

"What is it?"

"A blue crystal."

"I know that!"

"Then why did you ask?"

Roran sighed. The herbalist was getting annoying. It wasn't as if they had time, they were in the middle of a battlefield!

"Well then, what does it do? Why is it valuable?" She nodded for some reason, making her hair flap around almost ridiculously.

"Finally a good question! It does quite a lot, now that you mention it. It enhances magic and telepathic powers, for one thing, as well as increasing your mental capacity somewhat. Not that I really need to have it, but I'd rather he didn't." She pointed to the corpse, as Roran frowned in bewilderment.

"Where would something like that come from?" She smiled again.

"Metebel- never mind, you wouldn't know anyway."

"No, it doesn't sound like I would. Would Eragon?" he asked.

"Somehow I doubt it. Well, haven't you got a battle to heroically win?" Roran quickly glanced around, shocked out of the conversation. He quickly picked up Hugran's axe and went to help Jormundur and Pirnus, who were still fighting the same three men, but were injured and tiring rapidly, but he stopped short when he saw that Angela wasn't following.

"Won't you help?" She shook her head, as a distinctive male voice reverbrated through Roran's own.

_We believe you've got that covered._ A small, bedraggled boy smiled up at Roran, who hadn't previously noticed him, and grinned a feral grin.

Angela nodded. "Besides, finding this was my major concern here. This threat shall be easily dealt with, with my assistance or without it. It's Orrin; what else could happen?" The witch and the werecat strode off through the battle, blocking anything that came their way, yet never striking back. Neutrals. Unconcerned. He shook his head and turned away.

Roran hefted the heavy weapon again, uneasy with it in his hands. He only hoped he could take his enemies by surprise with it, or he would be terrible. _If I imitate what Hugran did, I should be fine._ But he couldn't convince himself of that.

Ahead of him, as he tried to go as fast as he could without overbalancing, which was quite slow, due to the uncomfortable axe, Pirnus and Jormundur fought on. Both were riddled with injuries, Pirnus in particular, as he had no shield, but they fought on. Jormundur, suddenly angry, charged for one of the men, catching the man's sword between their two shields and stabbing underneath the shields, making the man collapse to the floor, bleeding heavily. Jormundur joined Pirnus in pressing back the last two men, while Roran stumbled up and took the oppurtunity to behead the man on the ground. Then he turned, on a sudden instinct, just in time to clumsily block a strike from a still fresh Orrin. As the King's angry eyes glared, Roran backed away slowly, in time to see Pirnus split the head and the helm of one soldier, but the other one yelled and slashed into the side of the Nighthawk leader. As he did so, Jormundur's sword broke through the chest of the man, who collapsed to the ground, even as Pirnus did the same, though it was only his side that had been injured; a non-fatal blow. The King turned, to see Roran facing Orrin, and despite his wounds, and the danger, he stumbled across to stand next to Roran. Orrin looked down at them and laughed.

"So, battered and bruised, you come before me, as I am well-rested and fit, not to mention I have the height advantage as well! This shall be a fun victory to have, I assure you." With that, he lashed out at Roran, who could barely block. "See? Weak as a newborn foal." He laughed, and swung at Jormundur, who had rage in his eyes and blocked it easily, more easily than Roran had. Then, Roran made an attack, swinging the heavy axe around as hard as he could. He was hopelessly off-balance, and ended up nearly beheading the horse. Fortunately, the gash caused the animal to rear up and throw Orrin off, so his terrible attempts at attacking Orrin were veiled, to Roran's great relief.

Orrin stood again, slightly less confident now, but Roran's next blow was athletically dodged, allowing Orrin to swing a kick at Jormundur, who caught it on his shield and lashed out with his sword as Roran tried to come around and attack Orrin a second time. But Jormundur's attack was quickly blocked, and Orrin moved to place Jormundur in between him and Roran, pressing the King back as he did so. Roran swore at that, but whilst blocking a high blow with his shield, Jormundur gestured with a finger in a circular motion, telling Roran to loop around to his left. Roran did so, and immediately after that Jormundur stepped forwards, swinging in a right-handed attack then jumping in that direction to avoid the retaliation strike as Roran came forwards next to him, and they began to advance together, pressing Orrin back. Multiple times, the Surdan King would attempt to manoeuvre one way or the other, so he could target one of them, but the pair would simply move to the side and block the attempt. Their teamwork was wearing down the King, but he was still able to defend against them, as their blows were slower and weaker than normal. It was extremely frustrating.

Roran received a number of scratches to his arms, the unusual nature of the weapon making it harder for him to defend. He also took a wound, not too deep, but painful, to his thigh. Jormundur was likewise injured in a few places, though less than Roran. Getting frustrated, Roran slashed diagonally upwards as hard as he could at Orrin's shield. It was a glancing blow, but it knocked Orrin backwards and off-balance enough for Jormundur to press forwards as Roran tried to yank the axe out of the dirt it had embedded itself in after completing the swing. It took him a few seconds to do so, during which time Jormundur got a scratch into Orrin's shoulder, but when he managed it he immediately tried to join the fight again, but like before, Jormundur was between him and Orrin, and the Surdan man was keeping it that way, moving left to right, mirroring Jormudur's movements. When they tried the same thing as before, Orrin spotted Roran's movements too early and blocked them again. Roran almost screamed aloud in anger at being unable to reach the King.

Orrin moved inwards, farther than before. He pressed Jormundur's sword to the side and kept it away with his shield. He aimed a looping blow at Jormundur's head. He struck out with a pointed boot. Jormundur's shield came up and pushed the sword away, making it hit Orrin's own shield. He twisted as he did so, freeing his own sword. And as he made to step away, the boot and its metal tip penetrated his skin, just below and to the side of his knee, tearing at the flesh of his supporting leg and casting him to the floor. Orrin, who had stumbled, slashed down at Jormundur, but his attack was blocked by Roran, who had been near enough to get the axe in the way, but when Orrin turned and faced him he knew he had little chance of winning against Orrin with a weapon that wasn't his own as tired as he was. Nonetheless, he pressed forwards.

Orrin blocked a rather weak swing with his shield, which was now looking very battered, before making an attack himself. The shaft of the battleaxe was strong enough to block, and a little hack at Orrin's shoulder sent him backwards to avoid. Roran let a strong downwards blow catch across the wood, but the sword went through the shaft, leaving Roran holding a length of wood in his left hand, and struggling to catch the head of the axe by the wood that still protruded from it. He managed to grab it one-handed, leaving him with two weapons of equal length, one in each hand, the one on the right having a large metal axe-head on it. Orrin suddenly looked a bit less confident. Roran was much more used to weapons of that length, and he grinned, advancing towards the King with confidence.

Roran struck out, the axe part heading for Orrin's head in a slashing attack, and he hit the side of Orrin's sword away to the left with the other weapon. The slash was quickly brought back as Orrin's shield rose up in front of his face to protect himself, and Roran whacked Orrin's arm with the length of wood, before stepping left and dealing Orrin a backhanded blow with the axe-head part. As Orrin's sight was blocked by the shield, though he was lowering it, the attack cut into his side, scratching across his ribcage. The King staggered backwards, away from Roran.

Orrin went in for the attack this time. A simple slash inwards with a step to the side to gain momentum, and to switch position and maybe catch Roran off-balance. Roran met the blow full-on with the axe, swinging it powerfully and jolting Orrin's arm, at the same time poking out with the stick and meeting Orrin's shoulder, that and the blow to the sword causing Orrin to almost fall. Roran followed the move up by locking Orrin's sword between the two halves of the battleaxe, using Orrin's tug to try to get his sword back as momentum for him to pull the sword towards him at the same time, crashing himself into Orrin, and kneeing the Surdan King hard at the same time, their weapons locked between each other. He kneed him again, and Orrin was obviously in pain, before Roran shoved him to the ground.

The High King of Alagaesia gazed up at Roran, fear, no, pure terror, in his eyes, and Roran smirked down at him, before raising the axe half above his head and, before the High King could do anything, bringing the axe down onto Orrin's neck.

The severed head rolled a few feet along the ground, coming to rest just next to Jormundur, who had struggled to his feet, sword in his hand, and had a triumphant grin of relief on his face.

From the air above Ilirea, there came a mighty roar, but it was not a dragon's roar, nor was it a yell of victory, nor relief or freedom. It was a human's yell, an almighty shout of grief, and it was joined mere seconds later by a dragon's roar, likewise mournful, and then another, the same, and Roran turned, to see, on a hill, two dragons lying down next to another, the third limp and battered, a Rider sitting on each of the dragons lying down, one of which had javelins sticking out of its side, who were the ones roaring, and another Rider sitting next to the head of the limp dragon, which had metal javelins sticking out of it in many places, and it was that Rider's cry of sorrow that had first rung out across the plains.

Roran's mouth hung open in shock.

* * *

Okay, now that really is a cliffy! Which dragon is dead? Didn't Saphira fly out in front of Firnen?! Is it her?! Or did something else happen? Next chapter!

About the Angela part, the crystals thing was a reference to a comment she made in Brisingr, and to something she said to Nasuada earlier in this book about going to Belatona to find a man who had taken a crystal to her. But the description of the crystal and its powers are actually neither from the books nor my own invention. I did actually think about what to do with the crystal if she found it, so I made a reference to something that a lot of people have theorised about, and that CP himself has referenced several times in connection with the books. That being, of course, Doctor Who, and the people that think Angela is a Time Lord or something. I wouldn't know, I don't watch that programme. I simply searched "Crystals in doctor who" up on Google, then referenced the first thing that came up, so whatever. "Metebelis crystals."

Did you like Roran's battle with Hugran? I did it as well as I could, and made it go one way then the other as much as I can, so hopefully it worked well! And the fight with Orrin! Like how the weapon broke in two, and he fought on with the halves? I did!

And so, yeah, Orrin's dead, but at what cost? Who's dead, which dragon? Thoughts?

To ElementalDragonSlayer: Glad you liked the action! And your theory is nearly right! So nearly! Almost! But then why would one pillar be marble? It may require a reread! You are right about it being (partially) to do with Riders and Dragons, though!

To burningbook: You'll have to wait and see, because you may well be surprised! And I did have a couple of requests on Inheritanceforums for a MurtaghxTaiven pairing, though by those initials a few people also asked for MiremelxThorn! I did take it into heavy consideration at one point... You'll have to see how it turns out.


	56. Chapter 56

The questions are answered now. To those of you that were right, well done; to EDS, the vision becomes clearer now, and you might be able to guess some of what will happen next from it.

So:

* * *

Chapter 56: Thorn.

Thorn cared for himself, his Rider, and, by extension, his Rider's love, Nasuada. No stranger's life was worth more than theirs to him. They were three pillars, pillars that held each other up and relied on each other to do so. With the fall of the pillar that was Nasuada, their foundations, especially Murtagh's, cracked and weakened under pressure, and they leaned on each other more than ever, as they had done under Galbatorix. Now, to Thorn, what he thought was that no stranger's life was more than his or Murtagh's, a lessening of care for others, but not one enough to change his true name, as both he and Muratgh still cared greatly for Nasuada, despite her cruel death, so their true names still counted as the same, and the losses that they had endured in the past meant that the grief they felt wasn't enough to change their true names either, so despite their abrupt change in state of mind and demeanour after her demise, who they really were remained the same, and their shackles would not fall, no matter what they did.

He flew, fighting the other dragons, with sadness in his heart. As he clawed at them, threw them off, he regretted hurting them, yes, but he was proud, and despite his unwillingness to fight, he tried to make sure that they would regret hurting him too, though they probably already did. Eragon, according to Murtagh, had never wanted to fight and take lives. For that, he respected the Rider, but he still didn't particularly know him, or Saphira for that matter. He had exchanged a couple of sentences with Eragon, and had a small conversation with Saphira, but that was it. Nor had either he or Murtagh ever spoken to the green Rider and dragon, Arya and Firnen. Murtagh had once rescued the elf from Gil'ead, but he had still never spoken to her personally, even after Galbatorix's death. There hadn't been the time, as Thorn and Murtagh had nearly immediately left. Thorn respected them too, acknowledging Firnen's strength and Arya's experience, but he had no great care for them.

When he had thrown the elf off his back, it had not, unlike he predicted, caused both Firnen and Saphira to release him and chase after her to catch her, exposing both of them, but Saphira alone had gone to catch the other dragon's Rider, Firnen continuing to fight Thorn and claw at him. The level of trust that Firnen displayed in Saphira was unexpected and immense, showing that they were extremely close to one another, and were probably mates. Thorn found himself wishing that he had what they had, but despite his jealousy, he was happy that despite the very low numbers of dragons that were in their world, there were still two with that great a level of trust in each other. There was hope for the species yet, with them leading it.

As he struggled with Firnen, Saphira , who had caught the other Rider, rose up towards them, both Eragon and Arya on her back. Both Thorn and Murtagh at the same time noticed that Eragon had his arm wrapped tightly around Arya, her head resting back next to his. Despite the situation, it was obvious to him and his Rider both that they had in each other what Murtagh and Nasuada had had. Thorn knew that they would be good for the dragon Riders, and that happiness should follow them for years to come, along with those they would teach, and they didn't deserve whatever Orrin had planned to attack them with once they neared the city, nor the Dauthdaert Murtagh had been told to retrieve. Pain to any one would be pain to all four, through each other, and the death of any, while not the death of the rest, would be a mighty torture for the remaining, and Thorn knew that no-one deserved that type of pain, having experienced it himself just a short while ago. Such an occurance would be an almost impossible setback for the regeneration of the Riders, and one that would make Murtagh and him honour-bound to teach the remaining as well as they could, being the eldest Rider and dragon that weren't grieving, and them as teachers was not a good idea. Thorn was sure that they would be badly suited and not very trusted either. It would be a disaster.

Both the dragons now came at them, Firnen and Saphira, and Thorn knew that it was time that they should fetch the Dauthdaert, as Orrin had commanded. Whilst the other two slowed down and Arya dropped onto Firnen, Thorn wheeled around, heading away from the dragons, towards Ilirea, towards the Dauthdaert, and towards whatever else Orrin had planned to attack the dragons and Riders with. A speck of sorrow and regret entered Thorn's mind, for neither they nor Alagaeasia deserved what would happen to them, whatever it was. If he could, he would do whatever was necessary to stop it.

Murtagh jumped from his back and took the golden-dragon-killer-Dauthdaert-Lovissa from the battlements of the castle. Misery and sorrow flashed to Thorn through him, and the ruby red dragon reciprocated those feelings too. Fate was unkind to the Riders, all of them, it had been for a hundred years and it didn't seem like stopping now. The Fall, the Forsworn, then now the freedom that was being quickly ripped away, like a just-hatched-bird being cruelly torn from its warm nest and watchful parents by a hunting eagle, disposing of them to eliminate the competition. It pained Thorn to think so, but he knew it to be true. He knew that if things went as Orrin planned, there would be no regeneration of the Riders, and by extension, the dragons would be weaker. Such an event, with the further, extended effects of the bond, including all the races but the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka, would weaken every race in Alagaesia, weakening all the two-legged creatures but the birds, not to mention the fact that it would make the strongest dragon-like creatures the screaming-minds-ripping-claws-Fanghur, which he and Murtagh had encountered to the north, far away on their travels. Thorn's pride in his race and his rider's would not allow that to happen, as it would if the other dragons and Riders were killed.

He dived, sinking lower and lower, in more ways that one. He was assisting an evil madman in attacking and possibly killing some of the very few members of his race that were left; _for the second time._ If there was ever a dragon more lowly than him, it was Shruikan, but even the black dragon had only served once, and had had no chance of freedom. Thorn had known blissfull solitude, freedom, and isolation from all but his Rider for five years, and then simply reverted back to being a slave again. His shame was unbearable; his redemption an almost impossible dream to the people of Alagaesia that he so wished to save. There were few ways that he could even imagine of changing their opinions of him, but he assured himself that he would try his utmost when he could. If he ever could.

Then, he stopped in midair, letting the other two dragons fall further in their dives. They pulled up, as he flew forwards to get above them, knowing with regret that he would likely be forced to dive down upon them and attack, but he quickly realised that it would probably not be necessary. Almost a hundred javelins, mounted in ballistae on the walls of the city, were aimed at the two dragons. Weakened as they surely were by the spell to transport them, Thorn could tell that they would be unable to survive the attack as it was, and surely not with whatever other devilry Orrin had come up with in his schemes to kill them. Saphira, he could see from above, turned to Firnen just as he turned to her, their Riders doing the same. Thorn made out concern, fear, and hopelessness in all of their eyes, but most of all, love. And in Saphira's eyes, too, he saw determination, and he knew then what she would do. She would willingly fly out in front of Firnen, giving up her life in the hope that she would block enough of the javelins to save his life. Even before she tilted her wings forwards and looked towards the ballistae and the men manning them, he knew that she would be remembered as worthy of remembering, unlike him, the red dragon, the eternal servant of evil, who never did one good deed in his entire life. He knew exactly what would happen then.

He and Murtagh would be eternally hated.

Saphira would be killed, Firnen likely wounded enough to fall out of the sky.

Eragon would be torn apart, driven to madness by the death of his dragon.

Firnen would grieve Saphira, his mate and his love, for the rest of his life.

Arya would be saddened by the death of her close friend, who she carried as an egg, she would feel Firnen's loss and pain, and she would be distraught about Eragon's pain, trying to comfort him, but his mental wounds would take a long time to heal, if they ever would.

Miremel, his friend and fellow dragon, who he cared for a lot and didn't want to see hurt, would remain under the evil-king-Orrin-traitor's control.

The Rider order would be helpless with the four most experienced active Riders and dragons reduced to three, and those three mightily grieving. The young, inexperienced Riders would be unable to properly run things as they should be. Alagaesia's healing, if Orrin was actually killed, would be brought to an abrupt halt.

Murtagh and Thorn, the most disliked Rider-dragon pair in years, would be forced to take control of the crippled order, with no experience in such things themselves, needing training themselves. Chaos would descend.

But Thorn could change that.

Saphira's life would be saved.

Half of Eragon's mind would not be torn from the rest.

Firnen would not mourn his mate.

Arys'a love and dragon would be perfectly healthy, as would she.

Miremel would be free, released from the traitor's vile traps-of-words.

The Riders would retain their greatest warriors, teachers, and protectors. The healing of Alagaesia would continue.

Thorn would be respected, as a dragon who faced a hard life, but in the end, sacrificed himself for the good of all. The hate many felt for him would be overturned, eclipsed by his last act. Thorn, in death, would finally have done something good in his life.

Murtagh... The partner-of-his-heart-mind-soul-and-spirit... He would be distraught. He would hate himself for allowing it. He would sink into misery, both his pillars, his loves, torn away. And while Thorn loved Murtagh too, he had realised then that he had a duty. He was a dragon. A bonded dragon. No matter how hated, he was a member of the Order. He was bound both to Alagaesia, bound to the very fabric of the land, bound to protect it and his future. It had treated him badly, but he had no need to be vindictive to it. The cruelty and dislike had made him strong, made him who he was. Without it, he would be someone else, someone he would be less proud in than he was of himself. And he _was_ proud of himself. He had survived Galbatorix's tortures when less than a month old. He had been buried in the rubble of Dras-Leona cathedral as Saphira heated the rubble with her fires, and he had dragged himself out and fought on. And now he withstood the cruelty of Orrin as well. He even felt pride in himself for the decision he had just made, in a fraction of a moment.

He had decided to save Alagaesia, to save the Riders, to save the battle, by stopping the javelins with his own body before they hit Saphira's. Two things held him back; Murtagh, and Orrin's commands, issued with his true name. But in that second, Thorn's true name changed.

Because the lives of strangers _did_ come before Murtagh's or his own.

Because he _acknowledged_ the hate people held for him, and he _didn't _reciprocate the feeling.

Because he _chose_ to sacrifice, for the good of the many.

Because he was a _dragon_, and he would _not_ forsake his duty!

Thorn dived downwards, Murtagh as he did so screaming in his mind, _What are you doing? Why?_

Though it hurt Thorn to do so, he continued, showering Murtagh with his emotions, and repeating that fateful phrase, Murtagh's own, first used so long ago.

_You know why._

* * *

To end it anywhere else would be a waste, I think. We know what happens from here, any further words are redundant.


	57. Chapter 57

Chapter 57: The Start of Recovery.

Eragon slowly dismounted Saphira, her roars and Firnen's shaking the ground around his feet, but not shaking it as much as Thorn's body had shook it when he plummeted into it and the void a minute or so earlier. The red dragon lay there, flat out on the ground, javelins sticking out of his neck, his shoulders, his sides, and massive gaps torn into his wing membranes where the metal had torn it's way straight through them. His eyes were closed, peacefully, and they were the only parts of him that appeared so. The rest of his body was almost entirely horribly mutilated.

Murtagh was on his knees, rivers of tears pouring down his face, next to Thorn's head. His arms were wrapped around his dragon's snout, clinging on to his partner, his companion, his friend. He was the very picture of misery, the epitome of sorrow and grief, the peak of the mountain of despair. Cruel, cruel and cold would be the man to look upon him without the tiniest glimpse of sympathy appearing in his heart, and cruel and cold was the man reponsible for all the pain both Murtagh and his dragon had been put through. Eragon gazed at the sight for a few more seconds, then turned, unable to bear the sight of Murtagh's mourning any more, and determined to seek out Orrin and kill him. He cast his eyes over the battlefeild, searching for any sight of the King, but something strange met his eyes.

Surda's army was breaking up. Some men were throwing down their weapons, some were fleeing, others fighting on, and others turning on those which were fighting on. It was carnage, and the Empire's army was marching through it all, taking prisoners as they could, attacking those who attacked them, and at their head stood two men, one wielding a sword and a shield, with a crown, covered in another's blood, on his head, and the other wielding a weapon that looked like half an axe, holding a head in his other hand, the sight of which sent Surdan soldiers into a rage or a panic. But now, the man dropped the axe-weapon, bent down, and picked up an old, battered hammer, raised it above his head, and released a mighty shout of anger.

Even from where he was, Eragon could tell that they were Roran and Jormundur, and that the head was Orrin's.

The battle was won.

Thorn was lost.

A hand slipped into Eragon's, a shoulder brushed his. He and Arya leant on each other, breathing deeply, calming down as they could, before turning to their dragons, knowing that there was little that could be done for Thorn or Murtagh as they were. Only time could heal the wounds of a twice-broken heart. Saphira was less injured than Firnen, Eragon noticed. Thorn, hurling himself in front of her, had blocked most of the javelins, but those which had punctured his wings had continued onwards, albiet with decreased velocity. Some of those had punctured her sides, but were not pointing up distinctively, unlike on Firnen

Saphira indicated with her snout a particularly painful and awkward injury, where the javelin had hit her at the wing joint, where the muscles which powered her flying bunched. With shock and sorrow, Eragon saw that around the head of the javelin, which was embedded in Saphira, there was a large, ragged, bloody section of Thorn's wing membrane, in sharp contrast with the blue of the scales around it. Eragon cast a spell to slightly numb the pain, and grabbed the javelin, gently easing it out, Saphira grunting loudly as a strange sensation spread across their connection, somewhere on Eragon's shoulder blade. With a detatched air, he pulled the wing membrane off the javelin, then stood rather awkwardly, wondering what to do with it. Shrugging, he put both the javelin and the wing part to the side, and continued to heal the rest of Saphira's wounds.

After dealing with one of the javelins that had scratched quite deep, but not very, having hit a rib, which he healed too, Eragon glanced over at Firnen, whose injuries were worse. Saphira nudged him gently with her snout in his direction, saying, _I shall be fine as I am, little one. Help Arya. Tend to Firnen._ He glanced over her, determining that she would probably be fine, so he scratched her chin, and went over to heal some of Firnen's wounds. As he slowly removed a javelin sticking straight upwards out of Firnen's shoulder, Arya, who was working on a neck wound, flashed him a grateful glance, but before they could speak, a couple of roars came from somewhere a short distance from the remainders of the armies.

Eragon looked up from the work, seeing Laenar and Miremel flying towards them side by side. The noise of the wingbeats made Murtagh glance up from Thorn's body temporarily, but he soon turned back and his weeping continued. Eragon moved from the shoulder wound to one on Firnen's chest, the green dragon grunting his appreciation. Above them, Laenar flew faster than Miremel, who appeared tired, and when she and Dusan reached them, about a minute before Taiven and Miremel, Dusan immediately jumped off and helped Arya and Eragon to heal Firnen. With Dusan assisting, Eragon knew that Firnen would probably be fine without him, and he was getting tired from all the magic, so he walked over to Murtagh in an attempt to comfort him, putting a hand on his half-brother's shoulder. Murtagh was shaking violently, shocked at what had happened, and Eragon wasn't quite sure what he could say.

He didn't want to say something like 'it's alright,' which would be slightly patronising, but he wasn't sure what exactly would work with the seriousness of the situation. He settled for saying, "If I can do anything, I will."

There was no response but a small shake of the head.

Eragon glanced around, uncertain as to what he needed to do, and settled for going over to deal with Saphira's remaining wounds, while Miremel landed gently to the side of Thorn's corpse. Taiven dismounted, as the brown dragon let out an extremely loud wail of grief, lying down next to Thorn and touching her nose to his. Taiven ran around Thorn's head, with a mournful glance at the great dragon, and knelt next to Murtagh, putting an arm comfortingly around his shoulders and placing a hand over his. She muttered something to him, about what Thorn would want, and Eragon suddenly felt like he was intruding on a private moment. He quickly began healing a javelin that had embedded itself in between two of Saphira's claws somehow, then he went on to a scratch near her eye, which she had recoiled from just in time, and one more scratch on a forelimb, and his dragon was fully healed. Sweeping his eyes across the clearing, he saw that Firnen, Laenar, and Miremel were likewise perfectly healthy once again, though, like him, Arya, Dusan, and Taiven were all tired from the healing.

Eragon sagged, tired; he would usually replenish his energy from Aren or Brisingr, but he had drained their supplies with the teleportation, and had had to rely on his own energy for the healing process. He sat down on Saphira's foreleg, which she promptly moved and went to sit next to Firnen. One thought came across to him; _I am not a seat, Eragon._ He grinned at her-she had shaken him out of his mood-and walked across to her new location, sitting next to her this time as she pressed herself up to Firnen, happily, and he surveyed the hill they sat on with a critical eye.

It was a simple, brown rise, one of many across the plains, the sandy colour reminding Eragon of some of the scenery around Carvahall. The surface was marred by the newly formed footprints and claw marks of dragons walking and landing, and the area around Thorn was a large, newly formed, depression, about two feet deep, created by the impact Thorn made when he smashed into the ground. Around that sat three of the dragons, Leanar sorrowfully staring at the dead body, her Rider beside her, Firnen and Saphira were next to each other, seeming to be saddened, with drooping tails and low heads. Inside the impact crater, Miremel still lay next to Thorn, Taiven now standing up, arm around Murtagh's shoulder as she began to lead him around to where Miremel was, talking quietly all the while, comforting the Rider in his time of grief. Eragon had a feeling that he should help Murtagh somehow, but having been away from him for five years, it would be an uncomfortable moment. Taiven was probably closer to him than Eragon was now.

Arya put a hand on Firnen's snout, rubbing it, then slowly came over and sat beside Eragon. Together, in silence, the couple looked on as Taiven sat Murtagh next to Miremel, comforting him still, Murtagh continuing to let his tears spill out onto the dirt and dust. Eragon wrapped an arm around Arya's waist, letting her support him in his sorrow, and he knew that he was doing the same for her when she put her arm around him too, pulling him closer to her, and he pulled her to him as well. They took comfort in each other when all around them was pain and misery.

On the battlefield, what Eragon had glimpsed of it, the Empire had eliminated the last peices of resistance. Their armies were advancing towards the city now, some Surdan groups among them. There appeared to be fighting going on inside the city as well, men turning on each other, some wanting to allow the army entry, some wanting to defend the city. Eragon could tell already that, whatever group won, the Empire would easily be able to take and hold the city, as they were more numerous by far than the remaining Surdans in the city. The Riders would not be needed particularly to help, and Eragon suspected that very few of them would be able to help at all, except maybe Dusan and Laenar, who had known neither Thorn nor Murtagh, and had not seen what had happened. The shock of Thorn's sacrifice was still central in Eragon's emotions, and he knew that it was the same for Arya, Firnen, Saphira, Miremel, and Taiven.

It seemed that Dusan was thinking along the same lines as Eragon, as the young elf was heading over to Arya and Eragon, looking between the two of them uneasily, as if unsure if he was intruding or not. Eragon beckoned to him with his free hand, keeping the other one tightly wrapped around Arya, who smiled slightly, and Dusan walked the rest of the distance, then stood in front of them awkwardly, and spoke.

"Ebrithilar, I and Miremel should probably go and assist the Empire in the securing of the city while you are greiving. Do you agree?" Eragon nodded, slowly.

"Jormundur will appreciate your assistance, but I am unwilling personally to go into battle again at such a time. Could you tell Roran and Jormundur that I offer my congratulations upon their victory, and that I and the other Riders are remaining, in light of what happened here."

"Of course I shall, master. If I may ask, what did happen here?" Dusan's tone was inquisitive, but sad, and Eragon consented to explain.

"Orrin had set a trap for me and Saphira, and any other Riders that might come. Upwards of eighty ballistae were set up on walls and buildings in one area of Ilirea. Thorn and Murtagh were ordered to lead us, or any other Riders, over to that position, so that the javelins, some of which were probably enchanted, could fire at us and kill us. We pursued them there, and the ballistae were fired at us. But at the last second, Thorn's true name had changed, I guess, because he had decided to save us, by blocking the projectiles before they reached Saphira, who had flown ahead of Firnen to try to protect him from the worst of the missiles. The rest, you can work out from simply looking at Thorn now." Eragon concluded simply, for the retelling of the tale brought to even greater light the scale of Thorn's decision, and the price Alagaesia had paid; the life of such a brave and valiant dragon. Dusan nodded gravely, before turning and mounting Laenar, with a sad glance at Thorn again and a slight tear in his eye. Elves always did care greatly for dragons, and Thorn's death would be a hard blow for them to take, especially with his last act, which would surely gain him redemption in the eyes of many.

The thoughts of elves brought Eragon's attention to their queen, who sat next to him, leaning on his shoulder, and each rested their head on the other's, both moving at exactly the same time. They turned their heads in unison, gazing at each other, Eragon distinctly feeling like he was falling deep into the beautiful emerald orbs of his mate's eyes. Their lips made contact in a gentle kiss, and they smiled, turning away a couple of seconds later to see Taiven, looking up from Murtagh, shocked, staring at the two of them. Eragon shook his head at her, signalling to her to stay silent, and she frowned, but complied, turning back to the red Rider, who was back on his knees again. Eragon sighed, and Arya glanced at him quizzically.

"What is it? They had to know sometime." Eragon shrugged at her question.

"I know, I'm just uneasy about what people will think, and the rumours, and especially what reaction the elven Lords will have to this, with what Dathedr said earlier. What if they make you abdicate?"

A small smile appeared on her face, "Then, hopefully, Dathedr will be King, and I shall be able to return to Du Du Skulblakafell with you and help to train the new Riders."

Eragon replicated the expression, saying, "Is it really that likely that Dathedr will win? I mean, is he well-supported?" Arya nodded quickly.

"Yes, most of the lords respect his authority. Unless he does something unpopular and stupid then he is likely to win the kingship." Eragon and Arya smiled at each other, then stared out over the battlefield again, sorrow filling them as they looked at the bloody fields of death. One Rider and his dragon soared over the carnage, heading towards the charging, celebrating army as it entered the city unopposed, greeted by a cheering crowd of civilians, but the rest were surrounding the corpse of a bonded dragon and grieving a brave and tough soul, mistreated from the start, redeeming himself at the very end, on a dark and lonely hillside as the clouds, dark with rain, blew in from the west, chilling the day and the spirits of the people already chilled by the death of Thorn. And as Murtagh cried, Miremel roared in grief, Taiven shared the pain of her dragon, Firnen respected the hard choice that Thorn had made, and Eragon, Arya, and Saphira remembered a time of similar bloodshed, when dragons likewise collided in the sky and rained fire upon armies, during which such a tragedy would have been looked upon by almost all as a good thing, the first drops of rain fell, darkening the dry soil, and Eragon turned his head to the sky, letting rain mingle with the tears that he could feel swelling up in his eyes, accepting the cold feel of the water as it hit his face, knowing that no feeling of cold and gloom would match that which Thorn had felt as he let the javelins puncture his flesh, in order to save the lives of those which now mourned him, and to start the recovery of Alagaesia anew.

And they remained, soaking up their grief and the rain.

* * *

So, this is a sort of 'aftermath' chapter. Hopefully, I got the emotions right and everything, and... That's about it really, I haven't got much more to say.


	58. Chapter 58

Chapter 58: Discussion.

It was the day after the battle, and the Imperial leaders, the Riders, and the dragons were meeting with the captured Surdan lords, ladies, and generals that had been in command of the army, or had been taken along with it at the King's insistance, so that they could sort out the captured cities of the Empire after the conquest. A woman that Roran seemed to know, Lady Alarice of Dauth, was amongst them, and Taiven recalled that Roran and his fellow villagers had stopped in Dauth after pirating a ship and evading the Boar's eye. Her mother had told her that before she'd become a Rider. She recognised most of the Lords and Ladies, having as a child been forced to attend several meetings or balls because of her position as Orrin's neice. She hadn't really paid attention, and knew few of their names, but three of them, Lady Alarice, Lord Folte and Lady Folte, she knew, as several times they had watched over her as a child. Lord and Lady Folte were the Lord and Lady of Aberon, the capital of Surda, and had a large amount of influence.

They were all sitting in Lady Nasuada's old rooms, for want of a better place. The meeting rooms below were too bloodstained for use, due to some hard resistance there that had been quickly put down by Stronghammer. A lot, Taiven noted, could be told about the nature of the meeting, and the mentalities of those that were meeting, from the positions where they chose to sit or stand.

In front of the doors, outside which stood a dozen ready men of the Empire, sat Roran and Jormundur, on a pair of large chairs. Taiven could tell that the two of them were slightly unsure of their company's loyalty, as they were nearest to the guards, probably in case of an assault from any of the Surdan lords arrayed ahead of them. Roran's hand kept falling to where the hilt of his hammer should have been, but finding nothing, as all weapons had been removed before the start of the council.

The Surdan leaders were in front of them on an arrangement of chairs and sofas (Do they have them in Alagaesia?). A group of the captains and generals were close together, on a series of comfy chairs, yet Taiven noticed that none of them were sitting back, but instead, they sat at the very edges of their chairs, as if ready to jump up and fight. Some of the ladies appeared more relaxed, to the sides of that group, and to Jormundur's right, Lord and Lady Folte were sitting on a single sofa, leaning back into it, acting like it was a simple meeting of casual acquaintances. He was resting his hands on his stomach, and she was doing something to her hair.

The dragons were sitting on the battlements above the palace, mentally communicating or speaking through their Riders when they felt the need to, all apart from Miremel, who was hunting.

The Riders were more spread across the room. Both Taiven, who was nearer to the Lords than the other Empire people were, and Dusan were sitting down, though he was just to the side of Roran and Jormundur, and there were a few Empire captains between the two. He appeared alert, though not unduly so, and he was more relaxed than the other people around him, army men who crowded their leaders as much as they could and stared pointedly and distrustingly at the Surdans. Taiven was actually the borderline between the Empire and the Surdans, a captain who looked like a dwarf, only slightly taller, on her left, and Lord and Lady Folte on her right. They had exchanged a few words at the beginning of the talk, and he had expressed his unwillingness to serve under Orrin in the war. For obvious reasons, she agreed with the sentiment wholeheartedly.

Murtagh was away from the council, both for his own safety and to give him time to grieve. He had been given a large room, one of the guest ones, and Taiven had last seen him curled up on the bed, a shell of his former self. She felt his pain, and hoped that, sooner or later, he would recover. She cared for him a lot, and hated to see him like that.

By far the most relaxed people about the whole thing were Eragon and Arya. The two were standing at the balcony, attentive to the meeting, as they made comments occasionally, but for the most part they, and Eragon in particular, chose to glance out over the city, or, surruptitiously, at each other. Most would not have noticed, but Roran seemed privvy to the information, and Taiven herself remembered the kiss the couple had shared on the hill after Thorn's death. She hadn't had the time to confront them about it yet, being more concerned with taking care of Murtagh, and since then the oppurtunity hadn't come up. Both of them were a normal distance apart, resting their hands on the rail that ringed the edges of the balcony. Despite the fact that it was the others who were discussing, and that Roran and Jormundur were the ones who were mainly taking charge, it seemed like they were the ones in control of the meeting. Their words were recognised and acknowledged whenever they spoke, most that they said was agreed with immediately, and people would glance to them before coming to a conclusion on any topic, as if looking for agreement. The Riders were a major power in Alagaesia once more, perhaps too major.

A Surdan general, by the name of Rithis, was currently denying the fact that Surda had fallen to the Empire. "...We are independant of you! We lost this single battle, yes, but your forces lost the Battle of Belatona, and that did not mean that your country was under our control! Nor did we ever claim it as such! It is the same case here; you do not rule our country." Rant over, the man glared around the room, staring distrustfully at everyone not a Surdan. Roran opened his mouth to speak, but Taiven, frustrated with the man, beat him to it.

"The entire Imperial army, general Rithis, was not destroyed at the battle of Belatona, nor were they then captives or deserters. Here, however, the Empire has had victory, and there are no defences left in Surda, so the Empire's army could quite easily march in and take Aberon with few casualties, if any, despite its impressive defences," she said, nodding at Lord Folte. "Also, I hasten to point out that you, general Rithis, did indeed claim that the country was under your control, after the conquest of Ilirea, and you then went on to claim Ilirea as the capital of the newer, greater, Surdan Empire. Now, the former Empire has taken Ilirea back. By definition, we now own your capital city, and by the same principals with which you claimed the Empire yours, we claim Surda as ours. Unless you plan to negotiate terms of peace with your non-existant army, and your non-existant ruler, Surda belongs to the Empire." She could tell that the majority of the men around the table were surprised that such a young girl had been so persuasive, and made such good points, but since early childhood, as an important and close relation to the King, she had been taught the ways of political affairs, and had learnt such skills well. Her training at Du Skublaka Breoal had consolidated those talents even more. She was a good speaker, and quite convincing too.

"You make good points, Taiven Shur'tugal, but an army we have. Men remain, as I recall, in small numbers at Belatona and Dras-Leona, though not enough to do anything much against the Empire. And a ruler we should have, in order to negotiate terms here on our behalf, and one must be chosen right away. If there were anywhere we could have a private discussion?" Lord Folte spoke, calmly, and the group of Surdans were directed into a side room, from which muttering and heated discussion could soon be heard, though the noises were indistinct to Taiven. They remained such for several minutes.

Then, led by a man that Taiven suddenly recalled was called Lord Setnirc, the Surdan Lords, Ladies, and generals emerged, some looking unsure, but the majority appearing confident with whatever they had chosen. They returned to their chairs, glancing around at each other, as if wondering who should make their announcement. Setnirc, after a few haughty glances around at the others, stood, and spoke in an annoying voice, sounding dull and boring. Taiven took an almost instant dislike to him, but didn't let it show, and instead listened to what he was saying.

"We have reached a decision on who should be our new Ruler. Our monarch must be someone that will be trusted by you more than the rest of us, yet someone skilled in political words, decisions, and messages, and knowledgeable of us as the Surdan Lords. Our monarch must already hold a respected position to most Surdans. Our monarch must have some claim to the Surdan throne. As such, we have decided that the Surdan monarch must not be any of us who discussed this a few minutes ago." There were a few confused looks among the Imperials' faces, and Taiven raised her eyebrows. Even Eragon and Arya appeared surprised. When it became clear that Setnirc would not continue without prompting, Taiven spoke up.

"Lord Setnirc, I believe it would be helpful to all of us here if you named your choice as to your Ruler, as it is currently unclear to me, and, I believe, to the majority of the rest of us. If you would please elaborate... ?"

"Were it not already clear enough that I was refering to Orrin's last living blood relation, Your Highness, I shall now say it plainly; we have chosen you." Whispers of surprise immediately broke out across the room, Eragon quite obviously beginning a quick mental conversation with Arya, but Taiven held up a hand, and everyone stopped, to listen to what the possible new Queen of Surda had to say.

Taiven herself was still in shock from the announcement, but she hid it, acting calm and cool, choosing to question Setnirc on the decision. "Were I your Queen, I would have full power over your council, even as my uncle did? Or would I be a mere puppet figurehead for you to control?" A few of the Lords jolted in surprise, and she knew that she had correctly judged their motives. However, some, Folte included, appeared to have expected such a response. The old lord actually winked at her sneakily, having taught her such subtleties of ruling and judging years before. She allowed herself a small smile at their responses, but it vanished a second later.

Setnirc, as the speaker, was obviously faced with a tricky choice. Would he forgoe the command that the council would have over their leader, or would he recind the offer, and give the impression of the entire group of Surdans being disloyal and decietful? He chose, much to Taiven's relief, the first option.

"Of course, Your Highness, you shall have power over all of us Lords and leaders of Surda, even as your uncle did. Why would you not?" He tilted his head, appearing confused, but Taiven simply ignored the question.

"So, then, I would have full command over all matters of state?" A sharp nod was the response, as a plan began to form in Taiven's head.

"Well then, Lord Setnirc," she said, looking him straight in the eye, "I accept your offer."

The room erupted into chaos. A couple of Surdan generals, including Rithis, began shouting at Setnirc, probably about giving up their power. The captains of the Empire, and Roran and Jormundur, were all loudly talking and trying to convince Taiven not to accept. Dusan had leant forwards quickly, eyebrows raised, but said nothing. A presence nudged Taiven's mind, and she let down her defences, if only to temporarily get away from all the confusion. She recognised Eragon's consciousness as he spoke to her through the mental link.

_Taiven, Riders are supposed to be independant of any nation or monarch, as I believe I have taught you. They judge seperately of any power, they advise, but they do not necessarily make all the decisions for that power. This you know. Why, then, do you accept this position, without even consulting your Lead Rider? Or, more importantly, as Miremel isn't here, your dragon?_

_Eragon, I chose not to consult you because I knew what your advice and words would be, and as it turns out I was right. I know what I am doing. I am in control of this situation, and I have worked out a way to deal with it._

_But-_

_Tell that to your mate. She accepted being Queen quickly enough._

_That-_

_The circumstances are exactly the same._

_I'll-_

_If you do, I'll tell them that you and the elven Queen are in love._ Eragon's mind, defeated, sank out of her consciousness, and she glanced over at the balcony to see him sag slightly. Arya glanced at him, concerned, and asked a quiet question, to which he replied in an equally hushed tone. She regretted the blackmail, but it had been what she had needed to do. Around her, the people continued to bicker, very few remaining calm, Dusan and Lord Folte amongst them. She took a few seconds to organise her thoughts, then held up a hand. All noise died away, and she clasped her hands together in front of her.

"Thank you. If I may, King Jormundur, could I have a word with my Lords and generals in private?" Jormundur nodded to her.

"Yes, Queen Taiven, that would be perfectly acceptable." His voice was quiet, accepting, yet reserved, as if he was unsure of her and her motives. She smiled slightly to reduce his fears, thanked him, and stood, the Surdans immediately doing likewise, before walking into the room where the Surdans had been talking before. They filed in after her, arranging themselves around a round, stone table in the centre, yet not sitting down, leaving one space, obviously for her. She remained standing, however, and they glanced around at each other, puzzled. She spoke, cool and calm.

"Please take a seat, gentlemen." They did so, and she turned to face them, looking each of them in the eyes for a few seconds, around the table, before beginning to talk again.

"I presume that you are all in agreement with Lord Setnirc, in his offer to have me as your only ruler, with all the rights and powers of my uncle, King Orrin?" There was a muttered chorus of 'Ayes,' some more hesitant then others, and one 'Nay.' Taiven immediately stared at the single person who had disagreed, unsurprised as to who it was.

"What was that, Rithis?" The general seemed surprised that she had noticed who it was, and he hastened to apologise, almost seeming to panic under her gaze.

"I apologise greatly, Your Majesty, I meant to say aye." He bowed his head, ashamed, and avoiding her eyes. She looked away from the cowering general and continued to speak.

"Good, then, as we are all in agreement now, I shall immediately begin to take control and make decisions. The first decision that needs to be made, I think, is what to do about the Empire, and their control over us." Nods around the table. "The first thing we need to do is accept that they have almost total control over our entire country, whether their forces occupy it or not. We cannot resist them. They could very easily forcefully take control of Surda. They could likewise extremely easily take control of us. We are here, defenceless, in the centre of their capital city, and technically our country is still at war with them. We are currently, for all intents and purposes, prisoners of war. With us, they could force the surrender of our country." Again, reluctant nods came from the Lords and the generals.

"There can be no gain from resisting these facts. No good comes from fighting the truth. And now we come to the second thing we need to do. We need to stop the Empire forcefully controlling us, and reduce the harm done to both ourselves and our country. We cannot allow our cities to fall under the goverment of others who do not know how to properly govern that city, and have no experience in governing anyway. We cannot let our people face foreign ownership, ownership which they will not trust. We cannot allow soldiers to march down our streets in war. And we need to stop these hostilities." Mutterings of agreement came from the Lords. Taiven was winning them over, she could tell.

"It appears to me, then, that there is an obvious way to accomplish all of this, without warfare, at no cost to any of us. The Lords and Ladies shall keep their cities, the generals shall have no need to fight, and I shall not even be required. We should surrender to the Empire, and make arrangements for the two countries to merge into one. You would remain in power, keep your people, your trade, in fact, the only changes would be the flag you fly and the King you serve. The flag being the flag of the Empire, the King being Jormundur. Are we in agreement?" Over half of the lords said 'aye,' and the remainder, the two generals and a couple of others, could tell that they were outnumbered, remaining silent.

Lord Folte inquired, "Your Majesty, will you then abdicate in favour of Jormundur?" She nodded sharply.

"A second monarch in any kingdom which is independant of the first is rarely a good idea, and will lead to divisions and arguments. No, it is for the good of all that I do this." The Lord acknowledged the reply, and she nodded. "In that case, we shall return to the discussion with the men of the Empire, and I shall inform them of my choice." She signalled for them to leave, and as one, they stood up and filed outside, Lord Folte obviously hesitating, wanting to talk privately. At the very rear of the line, apart from Folte, was Rithis, and he was glancing around suspiciously at Lord Folte, Taiven, and the rest of the men. Taiven was standing next to the door, nodding to the men as they filed out, and accepting compliments as they came. When only she, Rithis, Folte, and another general were left, Rithis suddenly withdrew a dagger from somewhere concealed deeply within his clothes, and lunged towards Taiven with it, plunging it at her neck.

She sidestepped, grabbed his arm, loosened his grip on the dagger with a sharp couple of twists on his wrist, one from each hand, each in a different direction, yanked the dagger out of his grasp and put it to his neck.

In the next second, the Surdan general called out, "The Queen is trying to kill Rithis"

Almost immediately afterwards, Folte yelled, "Rithis attempted to kill the Queen!"

Taiven froze, the knife pressed against the man's neck. This was something she hadn't counted on. The Lords quickly returned to the room, and most of the other people entred too, Eragon being one of the first. Taiven knew she had to stand up for herself, and she said, "He came at me with the dagger and tried to stab me."

Most of the people seemed to agree with her explanation, but a few of the Surdan generals doubted it, or seemed to. Someone near the back said, "How could a girl take a knife from a full-grown man so easily? She must have gone for him."

Taiven didn't exactly see what happened, but there was a cry of pain, and she saw Queen Arya leading someone through the crowd, with his arm pulled up in a painful position behind his back. Arya said, "That is how, my good man. Riders are trained in self defence, and women are not the weaklings you presume them to be. The man winced and nodded, and she released him.

The man backed away, rubbing his arm gingerly, and Taiven caught a glimpse of his face, saying, "Stop!" The man, whom she now recognised as the Surdan general which had accused her in the first place after Rithis's attack, tried to back away, but Arya pushed him forwards again. "Why did you accuse me of attacking Rithis here when it was in fact he who attacked me?" The man attempted to back away, but Taiven herself grabbed him by the arm and held him in place, even whilst keeping the dagger at Rithis's neck.

The man glanced around, then stood tall and said, "With all due respect-that is, very little in the circumstances-that was not what I saw."

Taiven had expected such an answer, and had a reply ready. "So, you therefore will not protest if we simply allow the Lead Rider here to search your mind for the information? You have nothing to fear, if you have nothing to hide."

"Are not the words of two Surdan generals enough to go on?"

"Not against the word of a Queen and a Lord, no."

"And how can we even trust this Rider not to be biased towards his own apprentice?" The general grinned there, thinking that he had finished the argument and saved his mind. But it was not so.

"There can be no bias in the language of no lies" Taiven said, before switching to the ancient language: "I was attacked by Rithis."

"And how are we supposed to understand that? We aren't all elves." Rithis spoke, for the first time in the discussion.

"But some of us are Riders," Eragon pointed out. "And two of those are elves, not counting me. She said, in the ancient language, that she was attacked by Rithis." There was muttering aroung the group, most appearing to believe Taiven now, but Rithis still protested.

"She could have told a half lie, because when she went for me I reacted instinctively, and tried to punch her, but she had the knife at my neck before I could manage it."

"So, then, it comes down, again, to searching the mind of one of you four who were in the room. Rithis, I believe I shall start with you." Eragon said, and the general immediately began to panic. He hit the knife at his throat to the side, and dashed off through a gap in the crowd. He reached the doorway, nearly, then met a punch in the face and almost collapsed. Roran, the thrower of the punch, supported him, and led him out into the main room, letting him fall back into a chair. The rest of the group re-entered the room, and took up the places they had previously occupied.

"I was about to suggest a chance of scene anyway," Eragon said with a small grin, making his way back over to the balcony. He rested an arm on the side of it, and looked back into the room from there. "So, if that little escape attempt wasn't enough proof, back to invading his mind. Yes?" When none protested, Eragon simply nodded, and a look of intense concentration passed over Rithis's face as he obviously defended a mental attack. In comparison, Eragon was perfectly relaxed, leaning back, taking a drink from a flask that had been sitting on the table, and all the while, the strain on Rithis's face was obvious.

Eventually, the general froze, and a small smile appeared on Eragon's face. A short while later, he looked up from the stonework on the balcony that he had been admiring, a satisfied look on his face. Rithis took several long, deep breaths, looking down at his knees, and Eragon confirmed what all had been thinking.

"He attacked her, not the other way around, and it was he who struck first," he said, then he repeated it in the ancient language. "He is guilty of treachery against his Queen, and should be punished accordingly." He looked at Taiven with a new respect in his eyes, and she suddenly realised that he had seen what had happened in the discussion, through Rithis's memories. Fortunately, he seemed pleased. His voice, and the words _well done,_ rang through her mind, which she had forgotten to close in the commotion of the talks. She hastily closed her barriers, and gave him a small nod of thanks and respect, to which he responded in kind. While Jormundur called for guards to lock Rithis away somewhere, she readied herself for the announcement she would make.

When Rithis and the other general were removed, all eyes turned to her, and she drew herself up, ready to speak. "I have come to some decisions on the future of Surda, Your Majesty," she said to Jormundur. "Firstly, as I realise this has not yet happened, Surda surrenders to your army. Secondly, I would like to propose a long-term soloution to any lingering dislikes either side may harbour towards the other; that is, to make them both into the same side. I would like to allow Surda to officially become a part of the Empire, under the control of a single King; that is, you, King Jormundur. I shall step down, the Surdan Lords and Ladies shall swear loyalty to you and continue to run their own cities, as they are best at doing. Do you agree to this proposal, Your Majesty?"

Jormundur leant to his side and had a quick discussion with Roran, a couple more men of the Empire joining in, and then he raised his voice. "Unless anyone has any objections?" There was silence from the rest of the people there. "Then I hereby wholeheartedly agree to your proposal, Queen Taiven. Surda shall become one with the Empire." Smiles were revealed on the faces of almost everyone there, apart from two Surdan Lords and the remaining general, and Taiven stood and bowed to Jormundur.

"In that case, Your Majesty, I hereby hand the control of the lands of Surda over to you, and abdicate from my position as Queen." He bowed back, and they shook hands, before Jormundur was introduced personally to each of the Surdans, who then greeted the Empire captains and commanders, and the Riders. After that, the meeting disbanded, and Taiven retreated to her room.

* * *

She sat on the rather overly decorated bed, staring out of the opulent window and wishing for the simple comfort of Du Skulblaka Breoal. While the fancy patterns were pleasing to the eye, and the soft fabrics amazingly smooth, they were unnecessary, and she would rather have a plainer, smaller room, if only because it would be less effort for whoever had built it. She felt that it had been wasted on her. While Eragon had said that they could change some features of their quarters in Du Skulblaka Breoal using magic, and indeed she was now able to, she had refrained from doing so, prefering things the way they were, the way she was used to them. While Aruk had sung the symbol of his clan into the wall, and Dusan grew trees and such, to remind him of Ellesmera, she had left hers as it was, in honour of the one who had first made it and her simple lifestyle. Even as she looked out into the night, she could sense Miremel's return.

_How was your day?_

_I caught three deer roving the plains and a rabbit. You?_

_Fifteen seconds of fame, then same old same old._

* * *

Originally I planned to have this as two chapters; the first ending when Taiven accepts. But that was short and pathetic, so here this is.

The next chapter will sort out Elven issues, probably in Osilon or Ellesmera, and most likely the latter.

By the way, that last thing Taiven said? It was a reference, I think to Andy Warhole, an artist, who said that everyone would have fifteen seconds of fame in their life. He might have said more than fifteen, but I think it was that.


	59. Chapter 59

Chapter 59: Meetings With Elves.

Saphira was soaring over the plains, in the direction of where Bullridge sat on the Ramr River, ready to head past that and into Du Weldenvarden, towards Ellesmera. Dathedr had contacted them two days ago, to say that the elven army had returned to their home cities now that the threat from Surda was over, and he and the rest of the elven Lords were heading back at the Tialdari Hall, awaiting Arya's arrival, so she, Firnen, Eragon and Saphira had left at dawn the next day, heading for the elven capital.

Eragon gazed to his left, where Arya and Firnen flew. The green dragon's scales sparkled like emeralds, and he flew as close to Saphira as he could without their wings touching. Even as Eragon watched, the two dragons looked at each other, and each matched their wingbeats to that of the other. Their wings brushed, wingtips making contact at the start of a flap and maintaining it throughout, before separating at the bottom, and the dragons continued their flight once more, no longer so close, but flying onwards. They would flash the odd gaze at each other, Eragon recieving feelings of happiness from his partner whenever their eyes met.

But he himself only had eyes for Arya, and she only for him. They just kept staring at each other through the air, their gazes joining, and their minds joining too when Eragon reached his out to her, and she let him in, sharing emotions and thoughts to a great degree. Eventually, they began a competition of riddles, the dragons having a separate game, but Eragon and Saphira worked together to form one riddle, and then another.

_I give you support when you are weary,_

_I straighten your back when it is bowed._

_At the end of the day you usually find me,_

_Seeking me out when you are drained._

_What am I?_

Both she and Firnen had puzzled for a long time, then said together,_ Hope. _But Eragon shook his head.

_The answer is a chair. _Then, he asked the second.

_Stronger than you and stronger than me,_

_Smarter than each as well._

_Wiser too, more experienced it be,_

_And live longer than either it shall._

But this one she got right immediately.

_Us._

After that point, Eragon mainly used riddles that either Saphira or Orik had told him previously, but Arya guessed most of those easily, though he actually managed to surprise her a couple of times more. Her riddles were almost always harder than his, and several times he found himself completely confused, before the revelation of an absurdly simple answer would shock him. Eventually, though, they ran out of riddles, and fell into a comfortable silence, simply wrapped in each others' emotions as the ground ran on beneath them.

The terrain had changed from flat plains and scrublands to, temporarily, the desert, before it was scrubland again, which now gave way to the great forest of Du Weldenvarden. The mass of trees stretched for miles, and they extended their minds out to it as well, the forest creatures rejoicing at the presence of the Riders above them. And so they flew, one with each other and their surroundings, speeding towards Ellesmera.

* * *

Arya dismounted Firnen, Eragon having gone down first, at Saphira's insistance. The elf Lords that were assembled to meet them looked rather disapprovingly at the clothes she wore. Arya had decided to revert to her simple leather clothes rather than a royal dress, due to the ease when flying, and the fact that fighting in a dress was ridiculous. Also, the leather was much more comfortable anyway.

Dathedr greeted her formally, and she replied, touching her fingers to her lips. The rest of the Lords came forwards, and likewise exchanged the elven greetings, having greeted Eragon a short while previously. Then, Dathedr spoke again.

"Your Majesty, despite the late hour, I have to inform you that you are required for an urgent meeting immediately." Arya had been flying all day, and for most of the night before, and it was now almost night, the sun being just above the horizon, and she was, understandably, tired.

"What is the purpose of this meeting, Lord Dathedr? How urgent is it? If it is not immediately necessary then I must say that I would prefer to retreat to my chambers, as I have been travelling for a long period of time. Both I and Firnen would much appreciate some time to rest, were it possible." But Dathedr was shaking his head.

"The vast majority of the council has requested your presence as soon as possible for a discussion about your position, and the future of the knotted throne. As, if I may say so, I predicted." Arya gave a nod, then retrieved her crown from the saddlebags. It was more of a tiara, really, but she wasn't bothered with specifics.

With her crown on, she said, "Well, to the council chambers then." She led the way through the leafy gardens of Tialdari Hall, with Dathedr and the elven Lords and Ladies following her, and Eragon trailing along at the back. Arya suspected that he was unsure about what to tell the elves about their relationship, so she gently touched his mind, and was immediately let in.

_What?_

_Eragon, I was just thinking that you would probably be wondering what to tell them about us. Correct? _She sensed the conformation in his mind before he gave it.

_Yes, I mean, it might make them more determined against you, and I confess that I am uneasy about telling everyone, but it is impossible to lie in this language. What should we do?_

_Tell the truth. It will come out anyway, they shall doubtless be more than determined against me already, and lying will gain no support, not that we even need it, in fact, the less the better, as I do not wish to remain Queen any longer than I have to._ He acknowledged her statement, and they broke the contact as Arya reached the council chamber.

It was one of the larger rooms in the Hall, where the Monarch of the elves had held council for thousands of years. Strong branches intwined amongst the roof, less strong ones forming the walls. They laced themselves together in a consistant, moving pattern, over and under each other, going higher and lower on a whole, a beautiful design that wrapped itself around the room seamlessly. In the centre was a table; long, rounded, yet not circular, more of an oval, a large throne at one end, two dozen smaller chairs arranged around the sides. She went and stood in front of the Throne, as the Lords assembled themselves around the table, Dathedr closest, to her left, and the next most experienced Lord on his other side, continuing onwards in that pattern around the table until it reached Arya's right, where sat the least experienced Lord, an elf called Yintus, who had reached the position after the battle of Uru'baen, when his father, Lancre, had been killed in Barst's rampage. His body had been found, but the traditional sword of his house, house Othilosen, one of Rhunon's creations not of Brightsteel, had been lost, much to Yintus's shame.

After all the lords had taken a seat, Eragon took up a position standing to the right hand side, not too close to Arya, but not too far. This was a good move in two ways; it allowed him to participate in the discussion, as the Lead Rider, and it showed that he did not have too large an opinion of himself, as that was the side which was occupied by the less experienced Lords.

She sat down herself, and adressed the Lords. "If this meeting is so urgent that I cannot even have any rest, then so be it. What have you to say?"

Dathedr began by immediately putting the pressure on Fiolr. "I believe, Your Highness, that Lord Fiolr has something to say to you, possibly on the quality of your reign." She turned her gaze sharply to the mentioned Lord, six seats down from Dathedr, who blinked in surprise, then stood, and began to give a speech to the Lords around him. Arya sighed inwardly, and Eragon blinked at her in sympathy.

"Over the course of the past several months, I have become increasingly worried, as have many others, as to Queen Arya's actions. She seemed distracted, distant, unconcerned with the matters of politics." _He's not wrong there. _"Of course, I was then concerned that she was ignoring her duty as our Queen. A short while after I came to that conclusion, she departed for Du Skulblakafell, declining to tell us, and only leaving Dathedr with a message to us as to what she was doing. The location of our Queen and what she is doing at any given time is of great importance to all the elves, and we deserve to have a say in it, given our positions. I thought, and do still think, that such behaviour is not fitting for a Queen, but I was willing to ignore it."

He paused, surveying the room, and Eragon took the chance to protest. "Arya Drottning is in a rather unique position, Lord Fiolr. As not only a Queen, but a Rider, she has duties and responsibilities tied to both roles, and must pay attention to both. Surely, therefore, as a Rider it is necessary for her to recieve training in the secrets of our Order, long-protected and handed down from one to the next since the times of the first Eragon? It would be a great dishonour were the Queen of the elves not to recieve adequate training, do you not agree?" Fiolr retorted sharply, yet courteously.

"You are not a member of this council and are therefore, Eragon-finariel, unfortunately not given the right to give council to us here."

"But am I not the Lead Rider? It seems to me that it is time that the Riders once again took an active role of some kind in the politics of Alagaesia."

"Alagaesia was getting along perfectly well without the Riders these last five years."

"For one thing, I hasten to remind you that your Queen is a Rider. For another, look where being without the Riders left you! Surda invading with ease!"

"And she has been acting as Queen for all that time, not as a Rider. And, if you recall, two Riders helped Surda!"

"Unwillingly acting under other orders which they were fully against. And if _you_ recall, Murtagh lost what is dearest to every Rider whilst defying Orrin, which happened to save the lives of both I and your Queen! His dragon!"Both were beginning to raise their voices now, the eyes of the others flicking from Fiolr to Eragon and back quickly.

"Arya Drottning should not even have been there! Risking her life in such a fashion-not to mention extremely unknown, hasty spells beforehand-risks us all!"

"As a Rider, her duty is-"

"Stop!" Arya let her voice silence the two instantly, and all eyes turned to her. She had to give some impression of attempting to defend herself, though it would not be her best. "I shall say what I need to now. Eragon is right when he says that I am a Rider. I chose a couple of months ago to honour Firnen's choice of me and recieve training from Eragon. At that point in time, peace was spread across the land, and there were no pressing issues to hand, so I would say that my decision was reasonable." Dathedr looked at her almost suspiciously, as if he knew that she was not trying her best to persuade them.

"Then, I heard of the attack by Surda. Immediately, Eragon, Saphira, Firnen and I headed to Ilirea as fast as possible to defend it. As I could not go into battle as the leader of the elves, due to verbal trickery to do with oaths of peace by Orrin, I flew into battle a Rider. And I risked myself for Alagaesia as a Rider should. That is all I have to say on the matter." She folded her arms in front of her, then decided against it and set them on the arms of the throne.

As she did so, a white flash descended from the top of the high ceiling, clutched onto her shoulder, and croaked, "Wyrda!" She glared at Blagden momentarily, annoyed, as he only ever sat on the shoulder of the Queen, and most of what he said was the same one word, but she turned back as he simply called out again, "Wyrda!" Fiolr resumed his talk.

"I will admit that it was necessary to train, but at such a time? Just before Surda attacked the Empire? And after that, you mobilised us, but then you remembered that we could not act! In fact, you did not remember, but you were told! This is doubtlessly a large faliure on the part of a Queen, to forget an already existing vow of peace. And despite the fact that you were indeed acting as a Rider, taking into account your other roles and responsibilities is something that all should do when making decisions, even Riders. It is my opinion, and, I know, the opinion of several others, that Arya Drottning is currently acting in a way unsuitable for a Queen such as herself, and should, sadly, therefore be removed from her position." Lord Fiolr looked to Arya for a response, but recieved only an angry look. Spurred on, perhaps, he said, "So, I put it to the council; should our Queen, Arya Drottning, be replaced? If so, then she shall be forced to abdicate." There was some discussion among the Lords, but most were silent, as if they had already decided.

"So," Arya asked, "When do you propose this vote of yours to be made? I would prefer to hold it later, rather than now, for after a long flight to get here I need to rest." Fiolr narrowed his eyes slightly.

"As it is not you who shall be making the decision, rather, it is us, your participation in the talks is not necessarily required. And I do, in fact, propose that we hold this discussion immediately, as it is undoubtedly a vital one for us to have. Does anyone have any objections?" When none came, he said, "Then we shall begin. Starting, as usual, from the least experienced Lord, and going around to the most, as is the custom, to prevent less knowledgeable Lords from simply following the lead of an older one, and thus lead to more personal views and less decisions based on the opinions of others. So, Lord Yintus, would you begin?" But Dathedr spoke first.

"Should we not first make a decision as a whole on when the debate should be held? I do not seem to recall anyone making you King suddenly, Fiolr, so this choice of time and place is not solely yours to make." Fiolr stiffened slightly, but nodded to Dathedr, conceeding the point. Dathedr continued to talk, making the actual announcement.

"Now, we shall each vote on when we think the choice of Queen Arya's abdication or continued reign should be made. Starting with Yintus, and continuing around the table, as Fiolr said."

He nodded to the young Lord to Arya's right, just across from him, who considered for a second, glancing from Fiolr to Dathedr. _Probably one of the undecided ones. _Then, Yintus said, "I say that the choice should be made tomorrow."

_It seems his loyalty is to Dathedr currently, if anyone._

But the rest of the Lords were not so good. There was one more vote for tomorrow, then four for that day. Then, Lady Tirneln, a good friend of Arya's, voted for the next day, yet immediately after her, Lord Wirthren voted for today. Three more, two today, one tomorrow, then another today, ended the ranks of the twelve less experienced Lords, eight to four in favour of immediately. Two in a row chose tomorrow, eight to six, but three more made it ten to seven. Seven Lords remained.

Lord Cenat, who Dathedr said had first alerted him to the garnering support of Indarith of house Haldthin, and that of Fiolr of house Valtharos, then voted for tomorrow. Fiolr, next, did the predictable and went for today.

Eleven to eight. Five Lords remaining. Dathedr would probably vote tomorrow, and Indarith likely today, which would mean that the best case scenario would be a draw.

One for tomorrow.

Indarith, who was next, shot a glare at Arya, then another at Eragon, each equally vivid, and Arya recalled her intense dislike of any of the other races, as opposed to the disdain that most other elves treated them with, though that was steadily improving after the fight against Galbatorix, and the assistance humans, dwarves, and Urgals had given. As could easily have been predicted, she voted for today.

Then, there was a pause. The next Lord seemed to be thinking deeply, then he said, "Tomorrow." Two were left, Dathedr, and an old elf called Nuichiln, whose alliance Arya did not know.

Nuchiln gazed at his hands, which were rested together on the table, before looking up and saying, "Today."

So, the first really important talk had come out against her favoured option, and Dathedr's. Despite that, the talk had probably been mostly based on how tired the Lords were, or whether they were simply in a hurry or not, and therefore likely bore little evidence as to the outcome of any real debates.

Despite the fact that it would count for naught, Dathedr immediately gave his vote for tomorrow, then announced, "The result of this choice is, at thirteen to elven, we shall hold the discussion on the abdication, or lack thereof, immediately. Does anyone have anything to say? I do, but I shall wait for last." Fiolr nodded to him, then stood.

"While it is perfectly clear to us all here that Arya Drottning is an extremely skilled individual, I think we can all agree that perhaps being a Rider has recently influenced her decisions a lot, in mainly negative ways. In addition, there are the traditions of the Riders to take into account; while they held power, they were not in power. This has led me to believe, along with others, that she is no longer fully able to remain Queen, which is regretful, but unfortunately true." It was quite a short speech, but to the point, and he nodded to Dathedr, who said some words of his own.

"Personally, while I acknowledge that my Queen has made some errors, they have been understandable ones, that could have occured to anyone in her place, and due to something that she couldn't control in any way. Though they have happened, most were beyond her control, and I do not believe that she should be punished for such things." Fiolr replied almost instantly.

"Not punished, no, but measures should be taken to ensure that such incidents do not occur again, as they undoubtedly will for a Rider who is also a Queen. The only soloution left is for her to abdicate." A few nods came from around the table, but fewer at Dathedr's remarks, and some who nodded at his intensified their nodding for Fiolr's. In fact, the only elf that nodded only at Dathedr was Lady Tirneln. The outcome of the meeting was obvious already.

A sudden shock, a realisation, hit Arya then. If Dathedr voted against the abdication, many would look badly upon him for that. It might cost him the Kingship. _I shall have to tell him to vote for the abdication, lest he damage his chances._ She reached out her mind to contact him, and he let her in, but he spoke first.

_My Queen, I can make my own decisions, and I shall stand by them. I know what I shall do, and it is the right thing._

_Dathedr-vor, if you mean what I think you mean-_

_I do, and I shall stand by it. I trust in my supporters, and the goodness of the undecided. Also, may I remind you that going back on my earlier speech would make me look weak, someone who goes back on his own words? That would be worse than showing my support for my Queen._ She was then gently pushed out of his mind, withdrawing to her own, and she blinked, worriedly. He had a point, but even if he went back on himself, that would almost certainly be acceptable, as the debate would already be decided by the time it got to him. If he still voted for her to remain, it would appear stupid, and when she reached out to his mind again, his barriers were in place, and they didn't go down.

At that point, he stood, and announced, "So, now I ask you, should Arya Drottning be forced to abdicate?"

Then, the first Lord, Yintus, made his decision and spoke. "Yes."

Five after him said the same.

Tirneln, Arya's friend, was the first to say "No," earning her a few glances and forcing an explanation. "Arya is a dear friend of mine and I would not want to see her forced against her will.

Wirthren, following her, said "Yes."

Four more followed his lead, taking the voting, at eleven to one, to the senior Lords.

Two more votes for the abdication came, making it an inevitability. Then another three.

Cenat went with the majority.

Fiolr smirked as he voted for the abdication.

Another vote against Arya's rule.

Indarith smugly followed suit.

"Yes" from yet another.

Nuchiln, last before Dathedr, followed the pattern.

Dathedr stood, to cast the last vote in a decision that was twenty-two to one already. "If I had my way, I would vote for Arya to remain. In agreement with Lady Tirneln, she is a good friend, and more than that, a skilled Ruler. I, personally, would honour my loyalty to her if it would be any help at all. But, nevertheless, my common sense, and arguments of her own that she once put to me, are telling me that I should vote for her abdication. So, that is what I do. My answer is yes, our Queen should be forced to abdicate. And therefore, at an overwhelming majority of twenty-three to one, I must ask you, Arya Svit-Kona, to please step down from your Throne."

Arya was relieved that Dathedr had not gone straight out and said no, but showing his support was a risky move nonetheless. But it was mainly his problem now. She stood, gracefully, Queen no longer, raising her hands to take off the tiara, the movement lightening both her head and her heart. She removed it, placed it on the table in front of her, paused, and then slid it away, and it came to rest in the direct centre of the table, where Fiolr and Indarith both stared at it with hungry eyes, Dathedr observing it with a contemplative air, and the others all glancing between those three, apart from Lady Tirneln, who was looking at Arya.

Arya coughed, and attention was switched back to the former Queen. "I believe that, while the circumstances could have been better, this was overall the correct decision. It is certainly true that I was not preforming my duty as well as I could recently, and while I am sure that as Lord Dathedr says I could have still preformed my duty, it is best that another, more suited person than myself, who declined the offer for weeks before accepting, should take the post." She then nodded to Dathedr, hoping to gain him favour by showing that she thought he would be a good King. He nodded back with a quick smile, and she bowed to the council, before walking to the side, away from the table, leaving the Throne empty, and she simply stood next to Eragon, still observing from the side, who wrapped an arm around her gently. A few Lords shot them suspicious glances, others confused, but some, like Dathedr and Tirneln, smiled at the two of them, and they smiled at each other too.

Rather annoyingly, Blagden remained on her shoulder, making Eragon's embrace rather hesitant and awkward as he tried to avoid touching the bird. It was not only annoying for that, but it meant that he still saw her as Queen, at least for the time being. The familiar call of "Wyrda!" rang from the hoarse beak.

Dathedr raised himself from his chair, saying, "We need, I believe, to find a King or Queen as quickly as possible. A strong, decisive leader is vital if we are to assist our allies further in their efforts of recovery. Biding our time helps none. If any of you have any complaints against holding the election now, then I would ask you to voice them. If not, we can presume that the majority wish is to hold it now and act accordingly."

No protests came, and Dathedr nodded.

"Well then, now we need nominations for the position. I personally would like to volunteer myself as a candidate, as I fully believe that I have the necessary skills and judgement required. Are there any other nominations?" At that, he sat, but he looked down the table at Indarith and Fiolr pointedly, as if he already knew that they would volunteer themselves, which, of course, he did, but it gave him the impression of wisdom, being able to predict the ambitions of the other candidates, which would heighten the respect they gave him and raise himself in their estimations. Arya noted the political ploy, hoping that it would stand Dathedr in good stead, and that his support of her would go unpunished, but it was rarely so. He had been promised eight or so votes at least, but some of the others could yet go against him, or for him, and his support could lose him a few votes.

Indarith rose, and said, "I wish to nominate myself for the position. I promise to you that I shall unite our great race once more, and make elves a large power in Alagaesia again, as we were when the Riders reigned!" With that statement, she took a seat again, and Fiolr stood.

"I too nominate myself, as I know that I have the power and intelligence needed to take up the rule of the elves." It was a more bold approach than Dathedr's, and less specific than Indarith's, but it was valid nonetheless, and he sat. Again Dathedr spoke.

"Normally, I would give you time to consider your choice, but I very highly suspect that many of you have already come to a decision, so, I apologise if it appears to be rather rushed, but it you, Lord Yintus, would begin, then the election of the candidates shall be under way." Again, Dathedr was playing the 'I know what you didn't think I did' card, as he did when glancing across at the two other nominees before they nominated themselves.

Yintus, the first elf to vote, glanced quickly between Dathedr and Fiolr, then back at Arya for a half-second, and said, "I vote for Lord Fiolr to be our King."

The next Lord, "Indarith."

The next, "Indarith."

Arya began to worry, though it was only after the first three. Two votes already for the one who was against her, the humans, the dwarves, and the Urgals was a bad start.

"Dathedr."

"Fiolr."

"Dathedr."

Then came Lady Tirneln. "Dathedr."

Three-two-two in Dathedr's favour.

Lord Wirthren: "Fiolr."

"Indarith."

"Indarith."

"Indarith."

"Dathedr."

The less experienced Lords had all voted, leaving the decision, at five-four-three in Indarith's favour and against Fiolr. With luck, the more experienced Lords would be wiser, and choose Dathedr.

"Fiolr."

Five-four-four. Dathedr and Fiolr were equal.

"Dathedr." That vote caused Dathedr to slightly raise his eyebrows, then to nod in the direction of the elf in question, Lady Bellaen. She mirrored the motion.

"Indarith."

"Dathedr."

Six-six-four to Dathedr andd Indarith.

"Indarith."

Next was Cenat, then there would be six Lords and Ladies remaining, among them the actual candidates. Cenat said, "Dathedr," and it was seven-seven-four.

Fiolr stubbornly voted for himself, then another Lord voted for Dathedr. A majority vote of thirteen would be needed for Dathedr to have a victory, and Arya suddenly realised that it was impossible. There were already twelve votes against him, so a draw again was the best he could hope for, as it was for Indarith, but the vote went on, with Indarith herself up to vote.

"I vote for myself, as I am certain that I can unite the elven race," Indarith said, making even a draw a hopeless hope for Dathedr.

The next Lord declared "I vote for Lord Dathedr," and the voting passed onto the two remaining Lords, Nuchiln and Dathedr himself.

"Dathedr," stated Nuchiln, and Dathedr flashed him a small smile.

"I vote for myself as the Elven King." With that, Dathedr stood, and formally announced, "Despite myself having the largest vote, at eleven out of the twenty-four Lords, Lord Fiolr, with five, and Lady Indarith with eight, make up the remaining, and the result is therefore undecided. As is, I believe, the normal procedure, the Lord with the least votes will now be eliminated from the running. Lord Fiolr-"

But the Lord had raised a hand. "I apologise for interrupting, Lord Dathedr, but Lady Indarith and I have made preparations for such an event previously. We now choose to combine our votes, and ourselves, making us the majority, at thirteen to eleven, as the King and Queen of the elves."

The entire congregation gasped in unison, while Indarith and Fiolr simply grinned. The forced bonding was the only way they could have gained power, and both of their last hopes of being in the monarchy, for Dathedr was obviously more popular than either separately.

Eragon quietly whispered, "So, the elven equivalent of a political marriage?"

Arya nodded slightly in response, replying, "Aye, for the first time in our recorded history. It's left Dathedr in quite a fix, as it has Fiolr, because with the majority of their voters being hers, she has greater power over him, and can have a greater influce over the elves as a whole. In addition, her two children, which she had with a previous mate, will become prince and princess of the elves."

"Who are they?"

"A male and a female, I forget their names; I was with the Varden at the time of their birth. But they are not twins, the female is older, and I believe the male is called... Of course! Vanir, the ambassador, though she disowned him after he acknowledged you as a worthy opponent and went to become the ambassador. She hates everything to do with the other races, so her new position is anything but good."

"Vanir! That's unexpected... So now he's a disowned prince, as you were a disowned princess when the war was still on?" Arya nodded. "And I think he mentioned something about his family, or at any rate his sister, one time when he came to Du Skulblakafell, the first time, I think. He said her name was Cireni, and she would love to see the home of the Riders and them rising again, and he wished that he could show her."

"Cireni and Vanir, the new elven princess and prince."

"Good luck to them."

While they had been talking, Dathedr had accepted the new arrangements, and sent the youngest Lord, Yintus, to the vault where the important artefacts were kept, to fetch the gold crown that had last been worn by King Evandar. Arya was almost infuriated that the crown that had rested on the head of her father would next be worn by Lord Fiolr, and the fact that the sliver Tiara, both hers and her mother's, would be put upon the head of _Indarith. Anyone _would be an improvement on her. But it had happened. And then Yintus returned.

He was holding in his hands the crown. It was made of gold, seven points rising up impressively, each one at the base made of five in a short row, spiralling upwards and outwards as they got closer and merged into one with greater presicion than any human smith could hope for, or even any dwarven. Arya wasn't sure as to the means and quality of Urgal smithies, but she doubted that any but the best elves at singing items into shape could have created such a thing. It was perfect in detail, it had been her father's, and now it was to be Fiolr's.

The tiara, which still rested on the table, was a simple silver circlet, adorned with a single jewel, unlike the crown, which was just plain gold. The jewel, an emerald, was clasped in the beak of a falcon, the wings of which were spread out, the tips of the feathers reaching along the silver. Every single feather was perfectly detailed, and the bird merged into the plain sliver it rested on flawlessly, a work or art greater than even the crown, having been worn even by the first elven Queen, the latest being Indarith. Arya had to stop herself from doing anything rash, controlling herself to the best of her ability, but Eragon could still tell, and his arm tightened around her. She gripped him back in response, and looked on in hidden anger as Dathedr, who she could tell was forcing a smile, crowned the new King and Queen.

* * *

Arya departed Tialdari hall at the soonest possible convenience, unwilling to remain in what was now the residence of King Fiolr and Queen Indarith any longer than she had to. She didn't even return to her former residence there, as she had kept all she needed with her, leaving little of her own, and nothing that could not be easily replaced. She paused for a second, considered where she could go, and began to walk through the city in the direction of Eragon's treehouse, formerly Vrael's, where he had headed off after Saphira's return.

As if he had been waiting for her, Firnen swooped down, narrowing his wings to allow himself to slip through the canopy easily, an ability born of five years of living in the forests. She jumped onto his back when he landed, and he said, _I could tell where you were going, and thought that you could surprise Eragon, which knocking on the door won't do so well as sneaking in through the entrance to Saphira's platform._

_Plus you get to see her as well?_

_Of course._

_Does she know?_

_No._

_Good, then he won't._ Firnen snorted, then took off, getting as big a jump as he could, then his strongest beat of his wings, before flattening them to his body and thundering out of the gap between two trees with all the momentum he could. He cleared them easily, as only a dragon raised in a forest could, and soared across the darkening skies towards the home of the leader of the Riders.

Within a mere few minutes, he had flown, low, skimming the brances of the canopy, far enough to see the treehouse they were going to, despite his relatively slow speed. She could sense him reaching out and asking Saphira to keep quiet when he arrived, and he slowed his wingbeats further, making himself almost inaudible. He rose, up to the platform, then landed, and Arya silently unstrapped her legs and slid down one of his forelegs onto the floor. Saphira looked at her, and she raised a finger to her lips and pointed upwards. The dragon nodded, then she and Firnen launched themselves upwards and flew off towards the Crags of Tel'naeir. She, as stealthily as she could, crept into the house.

It was quite plainly furnished, an obvious inspiration for the homes of the young Riders at Vroengard that she had seen. But Eragon wasn't there. Arya frowned for a second, before noticing the stairway up and hearing slight sounds of quill scratching parchment. She slowly crept over to the stairway, listening, and with equal caution began to ascend.

As she moved upwards, the tree swayed slightly, only just enough for her to notice, so she slowed down her movements as she neared the top. Reaching an opening, she looked in, to see Eragon sitting at a desk, his back to her, writing what seemed to be more of the poem that she had seen him writing previously; the one about her. **(Chapter 12, I think.)** She lightly stepped out onto the floor, advanced as silently as she could, then reached out to grab his shoulders as he still sat, writing. Suddenly, he seemed to pause in his work, hesitating for a second, in thought. His hand absent-mindedly drifted to the side, the quill brushing the table, and just before she grabbed him he let it go, half rose, twisting, sliding the chair to the side with his leg, and he grabbed her arms and pulled her to him, meeting their lips in a passionate kiss. She pulled him into her, but they soon broke apart, and she saw that he was grinning.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked, curious.

"The treehouse was rocking slightly, even after Firnen left. It's easier to tell at the top, and no other trees were rocking at the same time." He gestured out of the large window. "That signified an intruder, and the only way to intrude silently is on a dragon. Even before I knew someone was in here, I guessed that you might have come, as Firnen had no reason to wear a saddle to a visit to Saphira; I daresay it would only get in his way." He smirked a bit at that.

"Of course, I should have known that it was impossible to sneak up on the great leader of the Riders," she teased lightly, but, rather unexpectedly, he frowned.

"You seem unusual... More relaxed then you normally would be here," he observed, and she rolled her eyes.

"Well, that might be because I no longer have the decisions of a race hanging on my shoulders. I'm technically no longer even of the royal family. I can be expected to be a little more lax about how I act. But you're still the Lead Rider, so you have to act official occasionally." He straightened himself, as if he was acting officially, though a joking light was in his eyes.

"Of course, I am required to do so by my raised position, which I am obviously _extremely_ grateful for." Sarcasm laced his tone then, and Arya spoke in mock sympathy.

"I'm so sorry about that. Maybe you should relax more, when you can, to let off the pressure."

"And how do you suggest I relax?" With wide grins, the two of them leaned in, meeting their lips once again, then their tounges, then their bodies pressed together, then he leaned further and she stumbled backwards, and then-

A knock rang through the treehouse, ruining the moment.

They stepped back and steadied themselves, glancing at each other in confusion. Then, whoever it was knocked again. Eragon straightened his shirt, with the words, "Time to act official, I guess; we can 'relax' later." They turned to the stairway, heading down the steep steps side by side, and Eragon reached the door first when they got to the bottom, opening it to reveal Dathedr.

They exchanged the elven greetings, then the Lord spoke first, saying, "Well then, may I come in? Or am I interrupting anything?" His tone was perfectly normal, but the meaning behind the question was obvious.

"Come in, it's fine," Eragon answered, and Dathedr walked in, Eragon gesturing to the only chair for him to sit on. Dathedr sat, Eragon choosing to sit on the bed. After a moment's thought, Arya sat next to him, to which Dathedr raised an eyebrow, but remained mute on the subject, instead beginning to talk about what had happened that day, though by that point it was practically night.

"I must say, I was surprised by the measures Indarith and Fiolr were willing to take to secure their places as the King and Queen. Something so drastic is practically unheard-of."

"They each knew that with your support they would not get another chance," Arya remarked. "Fiolr's supporters, for example, Yirnus, were more inclined to you than to Indarith, and he was about to be eliminated anyway. They had no other hope. Though it was extremely drastic, as you said." Dathedr nodded in reply.

"Aye, that it was. They plan to 'establish their bond as partners' tonight, which means that for the first time in a dozen years, there will be a mated pair of elves. Or am I perhaps mistaken?" He glanced between the two of them, and Arya sighed inwardly. She should've known he wouldn't abanon the point. She and Eragon glanced at each other, and she realised that she would have to be the one to say it.

"In this case, Dathedr, you are indeed mistaken, as you probably know by now." She slipped an arm around Eragon, and a small smile appeared on Dathedr's face, as opposed to a rather large one on Eragon's.

"Well then, I can see now that I was indeed interrupting something. I shall leave now, so as to interrupt no longer." He stood, and Eragon made to show him to the door, but he waved an arm to stop him.

"It's alright, you don't need to stand up for me, and I'm sure you'll be more comfortable on the bed anyway." With that, he left, and the couple looked at each other.

"What was that about?" he asked, and she shrugged, before kissing him deeply to cover her confusion, and to continue what had been interrupted. With equal intensity he mirrored the motion and emotion, and they rolled onto their sides on the bed, before _again_ being interrupted.

"Ebrithilar!" It was Taiven's voice that rang through the mirror to the side of the room, a voice with a tone of reproach, sadness, and slight shock. They separated and sat up, Arya almost flushing, and stared at the young Rider pictured in the mirror. Taiven's face was grave.

"Masters, you are required in Ilirea." Eragon quickly questioned his former apprentice.

"When are we needed? It will be hard to fly immediately, as we only arrived a few hours ago, and Saphira and Firnen will be tired."

"As soon as is convenient. It's Murtagh."

* * *

**Cliffy there! Sorry! but yeah, what's happened with Murtagh? Tell me your thoughts!**

**Indarith and Fiolr. Mates. Ah. Dathedr didn't plan for _that _one. But I certainly did xD**

**Political marriage. :( But hey, it got Arya out of goverment, which is what everyone wanted, right? Sorry that had to happen, but everything has a price. And if you don't like the idea of elves having a political marriage, don't think of it like that. Think of it as... A coalition goverment. NO, DON'T! THAT'S WORSE! The coalition has messed up our country! Well, mine anyway. Now no-one's employed, teachers get no pensions and go on strikes a lot, and nobody will be able to afford to go to university because they tripled the damn rates, and I'm exaggerating most of this apart from the last point. That's still terrible! I can guarantee you that this goverment will not last another election. Everyone hates it.**

**Enough ranting about real life... for now.**

**Anyway, did you like the riddles? Came up with those myself!**


	60. Chapter 60

Chapter 60: The Last Vestiges Vanish.

Murtagh sat in his assigned room, but he saw none of it. He was trapped, trapped in his own mind, and he couldn't have cared less if he was floating in a cloud or trapped in the dungeons of Uru'baen. The link, the treasured link that he had shared with the other half, the better half, of his mind, was gone. And it was only now that he was beginning to feel the full effects.

When Thorn had thrust onto Murtagh his every thought, his every emotion, and the words _you know why,_ he had unwittingly softened the blow of the loss, if only temporarily. As had happened to Eragon after Durza's demise, the memories and emotions Thorn had felt looped around in Murtagh's mind, repeating themselves, waxing and waning in strength, creating a temporary sense that the great red dragon was still alive, still in Murtagh's mind. They congregated around the place where his connection used to be, forging an illusion that Murtagh knew was false, but that would not break away. Though the flood of Thorn's memories was now obviously on the wane, every few minutes, a fresh one would run through him, taking over all his senses.

_Surrounded by darkness for so, so long, until it felt the_ one._ The_ one _was afraid, but brave at heart. The_ one_ was trapped, but within him was a great desire for freedom. The_ one_ was hurt, tortured, but proud and unbowed. The_ one _was_ right,_ and it sensed a desire to emerge within itself. It battered at its prison, as the_ one _surely would, and it beat the walls down, as the_ one_'s_ _inner strength would let him do. It emerged, it saw the light, and then it knew that_ it _was_ he, _and_ he _was a_ dragon.

_The_ one _was ahead, looking shocked at his arrival. The dragon stepped forwards towards the_ one,_ and the_ one_ moved backwards. The dragon tilted its head, confused, as a cold-cruel-mean-sound rang through its head. It turned to see a two-legged-being covered in darkness and jumped in shock, before leaping forwards at the_ one _for protection. The_ one _raised its hand in front of his face, and the dragon made contact with the_ one, _sending a shock through the both of them. The_ one _fell to the floor, but the dragon remained on its feet and swayed slightly, before nosing the_ one _again, and eventually the_ one _stood and looked directly at the dragon, fear emerging in his face as he looked up at the other man, the one in black. Noises seemed to come from the two-leg-in-black, which the_ one_ appeared to understand, and the_ one _looked at the dragon again, making a noise, saying a word, a name, which the black-dark-two-leg repeated afterwards. Then, the two-leg-with-dark-and-smelly-clothes made another sound, and the_ one _rose up above the cold-hard-floor. At another sound, the_ one _began to make loud-ear-peircing-sounds, sounds of pain-and-misery, and through a strange link with the_ one, _the dragon felt like it was being pulled apart too, as the dark-two-leg-who-was-cruel started to make a sound-of-gruesome-pleasure-that-was-frightening again, and the dragon cowered back, helpless._

The memory, Thorn's very first, retreated then, leaving Murtagh to dwell on the death of his dragon, and the little he had done to help. He remembered the last emotions that had rung through Thorn's mind, just before they rang through his again; fear, determination, and a steadfast resolve to prove himself to the world as who he was. Murtagh knew that his dragon would want him to prove himself too, to help, but Murtagh despaired at anything without his dragon. Were it not for Taiven's comfort, he would still be out in the rain, next to Thorn's body, which had not yet been moved, but he doubted that even Nasuada's help, love, and assistance would have let him survive his loss in any way intact. In no way was he guaranteed to even survive. The full loss of Thorn was yet to register, due to the memories the dragon had unknowingly placed in his mind, but when it did, Murtagh knew that it would be much greater.

If this was how he reacted to the cushioned blow, then he dreaded to think of what would come after. Not that he had much time to dread now. The vast majority of his thoughts were panicked, rushed, coming to strange conclusions and making no sense. His mind whirled, in more ways then one. He felt like he was drunk-in that his judgement and perception were messed up-but it wasn't fun. It was despairing, hopeless, and sad. His breathing quickened suddenly, though there was no cause, but he thought there was. He had been immersed in his fear and his grief, and then his fury, and memories of battles fought, won, and lost forced themselves to the forefront of his mind. His mental control was gone with the wind. He was afraid, afraid for his partner, forgetting the events of the previous weeks, and he was searching his own consciousness for the mental link with such savagery that it was almost as painful as when Galbatorix had finally broke his mind. Thorn was lost to him, and he could not be found.

It had now been over five minutes since the last vision had died down, and Murtagh's pain was growing, showing the fact that the last hints at their connection were vanishing, slowly. Then another vision presented itself, but it was dim, fading, even as it came.

_Thorn was soaring, looking down as two dragons, green and blue, were caught in front of almost a hundred ballistae. At that moment, he realised that he couldn't let Alagaesia's hope come crashing down. He couldn't let Surda and its evil King win. He couldn't allow the death of another dragon or Rider to taint his name or Murtagh's. He couldnt let them be eternally hated. And thus, great sadness in his heart of hearts, he sank into a steep dive, a suicidal dive, one that would change the fate of Alagaesia._

By the end of the vision, the colour was bleeding out of the picture, and the emotions were dulled greatly. Thorn's thoughts and memories were continuing to drain out of Murtagh's mind, but in one particular place, they remained; the place formerly occupied by their connection. Murtagh immersed himself in that part, that one place where his dragon remained, and found himself in one more memory, seeking comfort in what once had been.

_The little red dragon gazed around at his surroundings, where he had been shoved after feeling his mind being ripped-apart-inside by the cold-hearted-two-leg. There was only one interesting feature in it-the _one._ The _one_ was lying on a wooden-plank-sticking-out-of-the-wall, and deep-red-blood stained his face. In the past few weeks, in which the dragon had not seen the _one_ again, and had become very familiar with both deep-red-blood and the cold-hearted-two-leg, which generally came together._

_The dragon moved over to the _one,_ reaching out to the _one_'s mind as he did so. The one's mind was blocked, but the dragon's touch made the_ one_ turn and look, and his face softened. The _one_'s mind opened to the little dragon then, and a sound, which the dragon remembered as the last sound he had heard the _one_ say to him. The sound was, _Thorn.

_Sensing in his mind what the _one_ meant, _Thorn_ replied with the one thing he had heard repeatedly from before that made any sense._

Murtagh.

_His first word._

And the memory sank away, into the blackness of nothing. Murtagh's sense of connection with the last remnants of Thorn's mind was almost nothing. And those remnants themselves were fading fast. A slow undercurrent of emotions was all that was mulling around in the deepest pit of Murtagh's mind; guilt and love, remorse and care, and, lastly, before the mind of the ruby dragon fully left his, a sense of lonliness, born of a distinct lack of contact with others of his species or any other species but his Rider, a lonliness that for years in the wilderness Thorn had concealed, unwilling to reveal them to Murtagh and cause him pain. Murtagh only felt that now, the last thing he would recieve from his dragon-the knowledge that had been hidden from him for so long. And Murtagh felt that lonliness now, to a much greater extent. The last vestiges of the most special bond in Alagaesia vanished.

His heart and his head were torn in two, and he wished his body was too. He wanted to be dead. He had no reason to live. He screamed wildly, not caring what anyone thought of him. He suddenly jumped up, with the thought, _I don't want to be here, so why should anything else? They only cause me pain._ He screamed wildly again, but as it died down it turned into a twisted, spine-chilling laugh, reminiscant of Galbatorix's men who felt no pain. It was only logical, Murtagh reasoned, as he smashed a table against the wall. He was incapable of feeling pain anymore. He grabbed one of the chair legs and used it to smash the bed apart, tearing up the matress with his bare hands. A vase of flowers rested on a bedside table. A wordless spell set them alight and smashed the vase into the wall. He grabbed the item of furniture it had sat on with his free hand and hurled it through the glass of the window.

_The window._

Should he jump?

He came to a decision. If life was loveless and careless, it was not worth living. If it was not worth living, then he would not live it. There was no point.

He turned, took the first step, then the second, his mind focused on one thing for the first time in hours. But then it began to spin again, his resolve broken by a flood of memories, his own this time, of all his times with either Thorn or Nasuada. He remembered the forced fights against Eragon and Saphira, and the shared tortures he and Thorn had endured. He remembered conversations in Tronjheim, helping ease Nasuada's pain in Uru'baen, and the shared kiss in Dras-Leona, before her death, and the first part of his own. Thorn's had been the second. His would be the third, the third pillar to fall, bereft of the support of the other two.

His resolve born again, he moved slowly towards the window, as voices arguing sounded outside, before a cry of "Jeirda!" The door behind him burst open, he spun, just ahead of the window, and a young girl he knew but failed to recognise ran in. She carried a brown sword, the colour of Nasuada's skin.

_Nasuada._

In an attempt to rid himself of the pain her name brought up in him, he uttered an incoherent cry, swinging the table leg, which he still held, at the sword. The sword blocked, and the table leg split and splintered, the top part spinning off and scraping a line in the girl's arm that was the colour of Thorn's scales.

_Thorn._

Again enraged, Murtagh lunged forwards with a fist, but a hand came up and deflected the blow, before the sword that was the colour of Nasuada's skin raised itself to his neck and the girl began to speak words that he paid no attention to, his only focus being the sword at his neck. If he couldn't use the window-

He drew himself back, ready to launch himself forwards onto the blade, but the girl guessed his intentions and moved the blade to the side. He tried to grab it, but she simply dropped it to the floor and smacked him around the face.

That got his attention. His eyes focused on the person before him, and he realised that it was Taiven. She grabbed him by the shoulders, and for the first time, he heard what she was saying.

"...Murtagh! Murtagh! Just listen, dammit! Don't do it! What would _they_ say? They wouldn't want this any more than I do. Thorn sacrificed himself so that you wouldn't have to be ashamed of yourselves. Nasuada would rather you were you had been killed than to see you in such pain, even if she herself had to do it. So when your shame is gone, your pain under Orrin a mere memory, you now go to kill _yourself?_ That is the last thing either of them would want, and not what they died for." But Murtagh shook his head, struggling to control his body and speak coherently at the same time.

"My shame... for the past... cannot be gone. It may be eclipsed... but it shall continue... to tear me apart. My pain... under Orrin... is nothing to the pain of my losses. What they want... matters not... when they are not here to see it. I... cannot see them. I only see reminders...reminders of what once was... reminders of what might have been. And they drive me... crazy." The last word was low, a confession of that which was true, and she had heard it perfectly. "I would rather... die... than live like this." His hands shot up, broke her grip, and he whirled towards the window, even as his tortured mind whirled too, conjuring images of Nasuada and Thorn looking down at him, sadness and despair on their faces, but then their faces turned to pain, a sword protruding from Nasuada's back, his own sword, which had been taken, and javelins protruding from the neck and head of Thorn, his powerful body rearing to the sky before collapsing in a great heap, while Nasuada tumbled forwards, revealing him standing behind her, the sword that had killed her in his hand and a look of intense madness on his face.

He stumbled at the image of them, stopping, and he could hear in the background Taiven saying "Don't do it! You can survive this!" He almost listened, but at the imagining of their deaths again, he was staggering onwards towards the window, not to jump, but to get away from her, from doubt, from the voices in his head that spoke in the voices of the dead, speaking his fears, his pains, his shames, and his few gains. He wanted to escape it all, though he knew that he could not escape himself, or his losses, and that even Taiven would follow him for as long as he could, and she could outrun him, as she had a dragon, and he had-

_Nothing._

Not even the sword he hated so much. As he continued on his path towards the window, Taiven grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to stop him, one of her hands brushing the scar on his back.

_As a young child, he now remembered very little, but it now came to him in even greater force than before. Running around the great castle, happily lost. Hearing loud sounds from the side, investigating. Turning a corner into a darkened room. Again, the loud noise, now recognised as an attempt at talking. The child ran into the room, hoping to meet someone new and interesting, but the person was his father, yelling angrily at a girl who was serving him. The young Murtagh gasped in shock, and Morzan turned quickly to him. He cowered away, and told the servant girl to remove the boy. The little boy ran towards the girl for comfort, past the chair, and something tore through his back, then he went limp, fell to the floor, and saw only blackness._

Murtagh slapped Taiven's hands away, before running to the window. He ignored the shards of glass that he had broken with the small bedside table, punching the gap bigger, before reaching out and grabbing onto the top of the stone frame of the window. He pulled himself up, higher, using only his hands until his feet met the rock, when he continued his climb with four limbs. Taiven would not try to stop him, because it could cause him to fall from the quite slippery building of the palace. He had experience in climbing, from his time alone with Thorn in the far north.

_Thorn._

The thought spurred him on, and he quickly reached the battlements at the top, pulling himself upwards and over. The excersise had distracted him temporarily, but he still felt the restrained chaos in his mind, and it only surged when he stood up and looked at the almost stunned soldiers, four of them, who manned the corners of the battlements.

They didn't understand his pain. They would never feel anguish or madness like his. He didn't deserve to live; why should they? They knew none of what he had endured, what he had survived, until now. They could not have coped. Now even he could not cope. Why, then, should they cope with any more? He was stronger than them. He was better. He was wiser. For a second, in his contempt and madness, he [i]was[/i] Galbatorix, and he knew the tyrannical power that the black King had felt and he recognised it for what it was, what he was becoming, driven so by his crazed strength.

He breathed deeply, relaxing himself enough to stop moving threateningly towards the nearest man, and to speak relatively calmly to the group. "Please, leave. I am a Rider, and I wish to be alone." He raised his palm, Gewedy Ignasia upright, and the men glanced suspiciously at him, but they did as he had requested, filing down a staircase that led downwards. As they left, the last one looked at Murtagh again, and he gasped loudly, before quickly turning and disappearing downwards. Wondering what had disturbed the man, Murtagh turned, to see Taiven floating upwards behind him, a look of concentration on her face as she alighted on the battlements. Her hand was on the pommell of her sword, where she had obviously stored energy, and her head quickly snapped up, looking at him. Like before, Galbatorix arose within him, the contempt and lust to kill emerging again, but he remembered their faces again, cutting off the vision before it shifted to their deaths, and the dark King sank back, defeated, but remaining somewhere, this time, in the place where Thorn had used to be. That, he reasoned must be how Galbatorix's madness itself had originally come about, trying to fill the hole left by Jarnuvosk's death, and now the apprentice was following in the footsteps of the master. Clarity temporarily reached his mind, and he took advantage of it while he could.

He held up a hand to halt her advance. She stopped, staring into his eyes, as if trying to work out what was concealed within his mind. She winced back; obviously, she had worked it out. He would have winced too. He spoke, low and deep, all his emotions coming out in simply the voice.

"Do not try to save me. This is for the best, for the good of all. I am turning into another Galbatorix. My mind, at the very back, is filling up with rage and madness, and swelling, soon to take over it all. I am saving Alagaesia's future by doing this, as Thorn would have wanted, and as Nasuada would have. This I know. No-one else cares-"

"I care! Murtagh, I care for you, and if it is within my power I shall do my best to drive this madness from your mind."

"But do you care enough to replace one of them? Or, more importantly, do I care enough for you? You are a good person, Taiven, and a good friend, but I do not love you as I loved them. The Riders of old could not dispell Galbatorix's madness, so it is unlikely that you could cure mine. I am saving Alagaesia, Taiven; accept that." She bit her lip, her eyes tearful, and nodded.

"I have one question," she stated, and he nodded back in reply. "Where should we bury you?"

"In the place where the first pillar to fall rests, alongside the second." She acknowledged that she knew where, and he said one more thing.

"Taiven, I have one thing to ask you," he said. "Will you please turn away? I do not want this to torture you for weeks, wishing that you could have done more. You could not, and you should not have to see anyway." She simply stepped to the side, letting him pass and turning to the side, a single tear running down her face. He reached the battlements, looking down upon the city below.

"Goodbye," he said.

* * *

Three days after Taiven had contacted them, Eragon and Arya had arrived, and on the same day, Aruk and Kundavar reached Ilirea, understandably frustrated at not being able to fight, though when all the other Riders had told them in no uncertain terms that they were better off out of it, Aruk had grudgingly accepted the fact, along with Hunvin, though both Kundavar and his pink dragon, Darvan, had clung on to the pride of the Urgals and dragons, refusing to acknowledge what the others had said.

Now, two days of hard travel after that, Taiven leading, the rest following, dragons taking turns to lift Thorn's massive body through the air, they were nearing their destination. Murtagh's remains, fully healed, to give a semblance of peace to the procession, sat on the saddle. Thorn's wounds were likewise healed.

Miremel began to sink lower, having caught sight of a glint that signified their location. _We are almost here,_ the dragon said, projecting her thoughts to the entire group. Various replies came back, and Taiven turned in the saddle to see what the others were doing. Laenar and Saphira were carrying Thorn now, clutching his neck and his tail respectively. The other dragons flew behind, Firnen leading Darvan and Hunvin. On their backs, none spoke aloud or mentally after Miremel's comment. The only one who was doing something unusual was Eragon.

The Lead Rider was staring into the distance, grief in his face, but a greater grief than that which had reached him upon the news of Murtagh's demise. He stared southwards slightly, at a place twenty miles from them, where a similar glint showed to the one ahead, but a brighter one, with a bluish tint. Suddenly, Arya turned her face to him, concern and care upon her face, but after Taiven felt him reach out to her mentally, her face calmed, having probably recieved an explanation, one that Taiven could not quite work out. She wasn't sure at all what it could be, but she cast that out of her mind as Miremel angled downwards, towards the golden glint that showed Nasuada's resting place.

* * *

Murtagh's body was laid next to Nasuada's tomb, his sword resting on his chest, and Taiven shaped a similar tomb into the rock for him from the sandstone. Thorn's body was laid beside them, perpendicular to the lines of their graves, which were paralell. His wings were folded neatly, his legs tucked under him, and his tail and neck curving inwards towards the other two buried there. Though normally a dragon's body would be burned, Murtagh had specifically stated that he wanted Thorn to be buried alongside him and Nasuada, and the Riders would comply to his wishes. It was what they owed to him, and it would be given.

Eragon himself wielded the magic to sink Thorn's body lower, before raising a larger spire of sandstone above the spot, carving into it the massive words:

_Thorn._

_Dragon of Murtagh,_  
_Defiant against an evil King,_  
_Helped to bring about his demise._  
_Resisted another King's commands,_  
_To the best of his ability,_  
_And sacrificed himself for the new age._

_Mourn him,_  
_For without his efforts,_  
_All would be worse off._

Taiven had carried out the same procedure on Murtagh's grave, with the memorial:

_Murtagh._

_Son of Morzan,_  
_Rider of Thorn._  
_Judged by others all his life,_  
_Hurt by others all his life,_  
_Forced to kill all his life,_  
_But the one who lost one dark King his protection,_  
_And the one who loved the succeeding Queen._  
_And the one who lost his love,_  
_And his dragon, and then his mind._  
_He fought against the darkness,_  
_When it rose within him._  
_He killed himself to save us from it,_  
_We must remember him._

Then there was silence, as the company of Riders and dragons stood on the sandstone hill. None needed to say anything; the three silent tombs and their engravements said all that was needed. Until, as one, the dragons started humming.

Saphira and Firnen, Hunvin, Laenar, Darvan, and Miremel too hummed, an ancient instinct stirring within each of them. Taiven could feel it radiating from Miremel across their bond, a dragon's sadness triggering the reaction from deep within each of their minds. She withdrew a bit from the contact, unsure as to what it meant. And then a seventh dragonn joined the humming, one that she had not expected in the slightest.

Flying in from the north, came the black dragon that she, Miremel, Murtagh, and Thorn had fought on the way to Ilirea, on Orrin's command. It landed, still humming loudly, and none of the other dragons reacted when it joined the circle, completing it. The wild dragon was stepping forwards now, as were all the other dragons, and the Riders hastened to retreat from the circle as all the dragons closed in on the cluster of the three graves. All the dragons now reached out their snouts, as one; green, blue, bright yellow, misty grey, pink, and brown met, along with dark black, and their noses pressed together, light flashing between them for a second, white light tinged with all seven different colours, and their noses lowered in unison, touching the stone between the three peaks, and a light the same colour as before flashed again, but brighter, and every Rider averted their gaze, before the light died down and a fantastic sight met their eyes.

The spires had been transformed, all of them, to a great seethrough crystal structure, not diamond, but close, thin veins running through them. Each vein was separate, and the colour of one of the dragons that still stood above it, noses meeting at the tips. The dragons remained motionless, and the Riders advanced cautiously, even now none daring to speak to their dragons, wondering at what met their eyes. And then, one by one, they glanced down and gasped.

The positions of the bodies had been changed. Thorn had his neck and tail curled tightly around where Murtagh and Nasuada were, more tightly than before, and the pair of them were leaning against his side, in each other's arms. Taiven almost cried at the sight of each deceased person back in their rightful place, where they would have wanted. They rested on a great carpet of gold, what remained of Thorn's gift to Nasuada on her death transformed. The seethrough crystal spread far enough to encompass all four of them, and then a bit further, before rising upwards and stopping at the surface. It was a mystical sight, with the dragons all still standing over it, and then Taiven did cry, tears of joy at seeing such a magical, wonderful sight, yet tears of sadness at the fact that the site, despite its beauty, was nonetheless the burial place of Murtagh and Thorn, who were the best people they could be after what they had been through. It was an emotional moment for them all, yet an amazing one nonetheless. And the moment was not yet over.

The dragons, snouts still in contact, were crying. Tears flowed across their scales, beautiful, true tears, tears for the loss of the dragon that before Firnen hatched and after Shruikan's death had been one of only two dragons in the entierity of Alagaesia. The tears ran downwards, the tears of all seven dragons meeting where their noses connected, grouping to one, and then every dragon closed his or her eyes, and from between all of them a tear fell, a single tear, combined from all the tears cried by dragons that day. And the great tear fell, and when it met the crystal, it froze in place, a foot-high teardrop shaped memorial from the dragons, showing all the words they needed to say. Each dragon withdrew itself from the contact, slowly, gazing down solemnly at the tear. Then, they backed away, glancing at each other, and retreating back to their individual Riders, apart from the wild dragon, who touched her nose to the shimmering tear, which shivered, before simply turning and launching herself into the air, the stares of the others all following her departure.

And still Taiven said no words to Miremel, simply resting a hand on her dragon's shoulder as she still cried for all that had happened. She knew well enough that the happenings on the sandstone hill were both unique and inexplicable.

* * *

**... 'he better not of jumped off a building' '(i hope he hasn't done sth stupid such as trying to revive thorn or sth like that)' 'Oh no murtagh has killed himself hasn't he :( in the summary you said someone commits suicide and that hasn't happened yet.' 'And don't tell me Murtagh's gone suicidal...'**

**Are my reviewers all psychic? Well. I didn't think I was quite that predictable, though credit to Joda-Eragonsson for using the logic of the fact that I put it in the summary to work it out.**

**You know what? I think my best chapters are self-sacrifice ones. A rather morbid thing to realise, I think, but true. I've had three this book: Horst, then Thorn, now Murtagh. Quite depressing, come to think about it. I'll try to cut down on them in the future.**

**I hope I did the panicked emotions on Murtagh's part right, and the fear of becoming Galbatorix, not to mention Taiven's sorrow, though from a different PoV.**

**Valdr's vision-prophecy-thing has come true now, by the way. The first pillar, the marble one, was Nasuada; the first to fall. The two worn ones, Murtagh and Thorn. Thorn fell next, and Murtagh, unsupported, collapsed onto the remains.**

**Did you like the funeral scene thing? I hope I made the dragon magic good, and who expected the wild dragon to turn up? Sorry if I got anyone's hopes up for Thorn's ressurection with this line: "And then a seventh dragon joined the humming, one that she had not expected in the slightest." It wasn't purposeful!**

**And the tear! Good God, the tear! That just like came to me as I was writing it! Who says inspiration has to come from somewhere?**

**And I know that this fic could look like one big plot to ruin Murtagh's life and make him kill himself, but it really wasn't! Honest! I don't hate him! I had to have at least two Riders and Dragons on Orrin's side if he was going to be any threat at all, and two of the new Riders making amateur mistakes was unlikely. Therefore it had to be him. Nasuada couldn't have got away from Orrin's troops twice, and would have assigned his best to kill her, which meant Murtagh wouldn't fail. Orrin was cruel to Murt after that because he's sadistic and wouldn't have done anything else. Thorn sacrificed himself because it would redeem himself in his eyes and those of others, which had to happen because Eragon or Arya's deaths would have had disastorous consequences, and it was him or them. And he killed himself because he knew he couldn't become another Galbatorix, or even simply go crazy.**

**It isn't that I hate him, as I said, it just seemed each time to be the way things were going to go, a natural progression of things as they were turning out...**


	61. Chapter 61

**Hey guys!**

**Sorry this is so late, however, I did have a slight problem with uploading the proper chapter. While all the chapters were completed and posted on IF, as well as transferred to the Word doc on my previous computer, chapter 61, I remember specifically doing it, was edited on Inheritance Forums. Though I did then transfer the edited chapter to the Word document, both the Word doc copy and the IF copy are now lost. Which meant that the chapter was the unedited, petty, unrealistic and un-genre-compliant original draft.**

**So, I had to rewrite it. Which is unfortunate, because I forgot even the basic outline of the replacement chapter. So, as it turns out, I've edited the old one, and hopefully you'll find it good/halfway adequate. Sorry it took me a while! I had to entirely rewrite the last section, and it got a bit out of hand, so yeah. Hope you like it!**

* * *

Chapter 61: A Dark Mood, Turns to Competition?

An air of melancholy permeated everywhere in Du Skulblakafell. The miraculous atmosphere following the magic of the dragons had quickly vanished on the return journey to Ilirea, replaced by grief and woe. From there, the city had grown depressing with all the clear-up work, the smashed buildings and the mounds of dead a constant reminder of what had been lost, so after all six Rider dragons heaved the gate up to its position again, they headed off on the week-long journey to Du Skulblakafell.

It was now two weeks after their return, and the full Riders were waiting for the arrival of the new Riders. Vanir, now the elven prince, although disgraced by his mother and remaining ambassador, had contacted Eragon a week previously, telling him that he had found two dwarf Riders, and was heading through the human kingdom to find another Rider, and planning to search the Urgal kingdom after that. Eggs had already hatched for two elves. Since then, an egg had hatched in Dras-Leona, and Vanir was now traversing the spine with the young Riders, heading for Urgal settlements.

The Riders were becoming weary of the lack of activities. Aside from sparring sessions and meditation in the morning, their days were left to them. While good as a concept, while the dragons were still out flying and training it became rather dull. Each of the younger Riders made their own efforts to stop thinking about the past and the deaths that they had seen. Kundavar spent his time training in the ways of the Urgals; going on long runs, doing exersises, and so on. Aruk picked up a chisel and hammer again, taking to shaping rocks into small statues of each Rider dragon there was, and in fact giving each model, after completion, to the Rider of said dragon, painted in the correct colour masterfully. Small gems, brought in Tarnag, fitted into the eyes, and he was praised by each Rider to which he gifted one.

Dusan, as per the suggestion of his sister, Alanna, took to writing poetry. He, however, took a somewhat darker air to his work than his sister, as in releasing the emotions within him, he released grief, anger at the severity and abruptness of life, frustration at what could not be changed, and a touch of morbidness, though they also included hope and awe. His talents were slowly, but steadily, increasing the more he wrote.

And as for Taiven, she busied herself in a myriad of ways. For the first few days, she dropped as many hints about Eragon and Arya staying in the same room to the other Riders as she could, but when she was sure they'd all picked up on it, that pasttime was lost to the past. She created Fairths, of the different things she'd seen, especially of the moments of unison among the dragons, the creation of the tomb, and the tear that fell, but they all seemed to be lacking something, a final touch so to speak, and she soon gave that up from a lack of slate tablets. Little to do, she fell to Dusan's idea; writing. She set quill to parchment and thought back on her experiences over the past year, before letting her thoughts flow onto the page.

She wrote of her joy as she was trained, her visit to Orrin, which went rather badly, and meeting Murtagh in the dungeons. She was about to go on to the attacks on Belatona and Dras-Leona when Miremel returned with the others and she departed her rooms, heading for the dragonhold. She wanted a flight with Miremel before anything else, and night was fast approaching.

* * *

Aruk was gently carving out the last small statue in his project, one of his own dragon, Hunvin. The bright yellow, nearly golden colour of the dragon's scales meant that the lump of gold Aruk had brought out of the ground needed no additional paint or tinting. He had spent the longest amount of time yet on this statue, for which he had utilised a small diamond cutter to scrape away the metal in miniscule amounts, fixing every scale in place with the image he had kept of Hunvin in his mind.

As he worked at his self-appointed task, carving to perfect proportions the sharp teeth that lined Hunvin's jaw, he hummed a dwarven ballad that he had been fond of as a child. It told a story of two dwarves, husband and wife, of ancient times. When the great plains central to Alagaesia had been scorched by the sun, now the dry and arid Hadarac desert. The wife, seeing sense, migrated with the rest of the dwarves, heading for the Beor mountains. But the husband, stubborn, remained with several others to try to scratch a living out of what was once their home. They failed dismally, and while trying to reach the mountains, died of thirst, and the husband saw the error of his choice to leave her, and, knowing that she would search for him, removed his sword and laid it on a flat peice of rock, upon which he inscribed the words, _I am sorry for this, Doswen,_ for that was the wife's name. She had searched, and ten years later found the words on the stone, and the now rusty sword, and she cleaned the sword and treasured it and it had been of great value to her and her descendants ever since.

It was a deeply moving tale, with a slow tune and a sad aura, and it had always touched Aruk. Not just a stirring tale of love, and a tragedy that had really occured, it was a moral tale. The husband's stubborness had cost him his life and his love, but he had redeemed himself a bit in the message of apology. All dwarves learnt the story young, as a lesson for their futures.

Still humming, Aruk outlined a small scale on the nose of the model, before delicately scraping off the surface, angling it outwards like a true scale. It was one of the last he had to do; the statue was almost complete, only a few parts left had not been carved, and those were small. He moved onto another scale, precision, not speed, his goal.

The lessons that the old ballad had taught him had served him well. He would previously have determinedly persisted in arguing with Eragon that he should have been allowed to fight against Orrin, but he had remembered the tale, and stopped when it had become obvious that the Lead Rider would not back down.

Slowly, carefully, Aruk etched the outline of another scale into the golden statue. It fit perfectly into the space between two more, as he knew it would, and the tiny diamond cutter sank into the gold, before he pulled it smoothly outwards, creating the perfectly smooth look of a dragon scale. Aruk looked through his memories for any defections in Hunvin's spines or scales, remembering a small, unique indent on the side of one of the spines that lined Hunvin's back, the one above the one that he held in flight. He added that onto the model, giving it a miniscule mark, and then continued to add several small scars that had accumulated during fight training. His work complete, perfect, he called to Hunvin with his mind. The yellow dragon answered quickly.

_Aruk? What is it? Do you want to ride? Taiven's come to see Miremel, so we could fly as a group!_ The rather enthusiastic dragon seemed energetic, but Aruk had to stop him there.

_I have something I'd like to show you, rather, to give you. I'll be there in a minute or so._ He cut off the connection then, wanting to keep it a surprise; he had not told Hunvin about the model, wanting it as a shock, and had instead said that he was making a model of the wild black dragon that had come to Thorn and Murtagh's funeral. He glanced again at the perfect statue of his dragon, in a tense position, ready to do anything: jump into the air, attack another dragon, dodge to the side. The other dragons he had made in heroic poses, rearing up, soaring high, roaring loudly and lashing out, but he prefered the simpler things, and the position of the statue was one of them.

Aruk strode out of his rooms, towards the dragonhold. When he arrived, Hunvin came over, and he presented him with the statue, smiling slightly in pride.

The dragon considered it, sniffed it, and then said, _Couldn't you have made me look a bit more... heroic?_

_Spoilsport._

* * *

Laenar soared over the forest that surrounded Du Skulblakafell, searching for prey. She spotted a stream she knew, and followed it as it wound its way through a depression in the ground, knowing that it would eventually reach a small clearing above an equally small cliff, where horses-with-horns-deer would often come to drink. She visited rarely, unwilling to scare prey away from her best hunting position, and Dusan had often complained when she landed on the grass and tore it up, as it gave him nowhere to sit comfortably when they found the time to fly alone, to the place where only they knew. She had never smelt any other dragons there, and neither of them had told anyone of it.

Admittedly, Dusan had said that he might like to show his sister, and when Laenar pressed him about a certain reluctance to tell her something, she had laughed loudly when he said that if he ever had a mate, he would like to show her, too. His embaressment was funny, especially when he retorted angrily. Ever since, she had seen fit to tease him about it every now and then.

She reached the clearing and hovered over it for a while, looking at the water cascading down the rocks of the cliff and waiting for her prey. She hunted with the patience of the hunter, knowing that her prey would come to her, and sliently stalking it. When a half-hour had passed, a strong buck came into view, cautiously moving to the banks of the pool at the bottom of the waterfall, glancing around, then taking a drink. Laenar swooped downwards, wings catching the wind perfectly, angling lightly down before quickly leveling out and snatching at the deer's body with her hind legs, catching it around the chest and hoisting it upwards. A high-pitched squeal was cut off when she sliced backwards with a foreleg, as she rose higher again, soaring into the skies. She flipped herself over, upside-down, tossed it into the air, caught it in her forelegs, threw it again and crunched it into her jaws. She flew back towards Du Skulblakafell, many miles away, reaching out for Dusan.

He was, as she had guessed, writing at the table in his room. However, this time his emotions were different from their usual dark state nowadays, instead being more hopeful, encouraging, and happy in general. She spoke to him, making the point that she had done several times already since he had begun writing poetry.

_What is the point of all your work if you don't earn anything from it, not even recognition?_ She expected the usual slight flash of irritation, followed by explanation, but this time he paused.

_You know, I've been thinking about that. You have a point, though a small one. And I have come up with a soloution, one that may lighten the hearts of all involved here,_ he said, and she examined the idea in his mind. It was quite a good one, and anyone would have the chance to get involved. It would bring some change to the home of the Riders and provide another discussion topic for a while, which would be a relief. Even the dragons had little to do other than hunt and fly.

_Are you going to tell Eragon now?_

He seemed to think about the question for a second, before saying, _I'd rather finish this first, but I guess there'll be time later. I'm going._ She cut off the connection after sending a wave of love across the bond, and she felt his pleasure before retreating to her own mind and continuing her flight, peering between the trees for any sign of more prey.

* * *

Kundavar ran up to a large stone ridge, after running through the forest surrounding Du Skulblakafell for hours now, navigating the contours of the land in order to arrive at this very place, a rocky protrusion from the forest, which he had noticed from his window when he had first arrived, but training had given him few breaks long enough to visit, and Darvan had wanted to fly with him for most of them. It was only now that he got his first chance, which was rather strange after five years of life in the home of the Riders.

He emerged from the treeline, into the light that he had seen only fleetingly through the trees. It was some time past midday, and he looked out across the forest of green, throughout which thousands of animals roamed, but did not know of his presence. He declared it to them, opening his mouth and releasing a gutteral roar in the way of the Urgals, and it rang across the canopy, startling birds into flight and sending alarm through the minds of every creature but one that he was sensing with his mind.

The one was Darvan, soaring through the air towards him, coming from Du Skulblakafell's direction. The home of the Riders was currently just within sight on the horizon, and Darvan was distinctively visible halfway between the two points. Kundavar reached the very top of the rise, spreading his arms out to his dragon in welcoming, as the pink-scaled shape hurtled towards him, picking up speed rapidly.

_Well done, my Rider, you have taken two hours to cover a distance that then took me ten minutes. You have proven yourself indeed._ The sarcasm was evident, and Kundavar's own pride sparked a reply.

_You yourself repeatedly say that no other being can hope to defeat a dragon, so what else is expected? Two hours is an achievement for any two-legged species on a trek through a forest such as this._

_Why go through a forest when you can soar over it?_ At that, before Kundavar could reply, Darvan swooped down and grabbed him, lifting him high, and he grunted in mock anger with his dragon as the air hit him powerfully. _Well then, why don't you prove yourself and escape me?_

Kundavar, not expecting anything to happen, grasped the edges of Darvan's claws with his hands and pulled them away from his body. His muscles strained; the claws tightened; he utilised all his strength in his attempts to loosen his dragon's strong grip. Kundavar, eight foot Kull of the Bolvek tribe, son of Nar Garzhvog, Rider of Darvan, put all the strength he could into loosening the grip of the latter, pulling mightily, stronger than he had probably ever before, and he sensed surprise in the mind of his partner, and shock at his strength.

But the claws of his dragon, after shifting slightly, redoubled their efforts, and Kundavar remained held in place.

_Do you now deny that I need to train?_

_Do you now deny the strength of dragons?_

_I never did, Darvan._

_Nor did I deny you your training._ They flew as such, one in the grip of the other, talking in like vein as they did so, and they headed back to Du Skulblakafell.

* * *

Eragon and Arya were sparring when Dusan found them. It was always something you didn't want to interrupt, their sparring; it was never the same two times in a row, and if one beat the other it was bound to be spectacular. They were partners dancing a dance, light and elegant, with incredible strength at the same time. Their fights flowed together and crashed apart, yet no movement was wasted. It was quite incredible.

However, first Arya, then Eragon noticed the bystander, and they turned to face him.

Dusan twisted his hand over his sternum in greeting, and they replicated the motion with the same elven grace. "Ebrithilar," he began, "I have a proposal for an activity for the riders to partake in, in order to pass the time between now and the next generation of Riders' arrival, and for something to do that is intellectually challenging. I propose a poetry, or indeed verse of any kind, competition. Would you agree to arrange such a thing?"

After a few short seconds of mental conversation, both Eragon and Arya nodded. "Leave it to us, Dusan. We shall spread the word," Arya confirmed. "Thank you for the suggestion."

Dusan bowed, recognising that he was needed no longer, and contacted Laenar.

_They agreed!_

_Good thing too, I already told all the others and I don't want to look like a fool!_

* * *

**So, yeah. The last proper chapter. Epilogue is the competition, which I am doing** **entirely because I wrote quite a lot of poetry based on this fic in my notebook that I have to put somewhere. Should be pretty good and long!**

**This is a bit of a character development chapter, for the Riders-odd for so late-on-but it reveals what the Riders do in their spare time. So it's interesting, right? ...Right?**


End file.
